lttl 


UC-NRLF 


GIFT  OF 


the  fl  wakening  of  Poccalitc 


A  Tal*  of  Telegraph  Hill, 


OTHER  TALES 


EUGENIA    KELLOGG— 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
1903. 


Copywright,  1903. 

by 
The  Author. 


INDEX. 

Page. 

The  Awakening  of  Poccalito 9 

A  Mexican  Holiday 39 

Chief  Skowl's  Revenge '.'.'.'.'.'. 57 

A  Heroine  of  Diplomacy .   75 

A  Sleuth  of  Stowaways 99 

The  Story  of  a  Curse II7 


TRAD*  SUPPLIED  BY  THE  SAN  FRANCISCO   NEWS  COMPANY 


326013 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


Sarab  Bun  2>'j£stran#*1Rello0a 

"  The  depth  and  dream  of  my  desire, 
The  bitter  paths  wherein  I  stray 
Thou  knowest " 


I  have  read  your  stories  which  I  return 
with  hearty  indorsement,  not  only  because  they 
are  new  to  a  world  which  has  long  been  sated 
with  golden  skies,  golden  fields,  golden  sonsets 
and  golden  gates,  but  because  they  are  true, 

Here  you  have  the  Greek  fishermen  as  I 
found  them  forty  years  ago  and  as  they  will  be 
centuries  hence.  Here  are  the  Italian  egg 
gatherers,  as  off  their  own  coast,  In  fact,  you 
heue  widened  the  world — our  California  world 
— and  made  the  land  more  entirely  Italy  than 
ever  before. 

If  you  mean  to  make-. a  book  with  these 
stories,  I  would  suggest  that  you  include  your 
biography  of  Mayor  Sutra,  the  great,  good 
friend  of  the  poor  and  especially  those  you 
have  so  faithfully  sketched, 


M^ttoc* 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    FOCCALITO 


THE  AWAKENING  OF 
POCCALITO. 

A  TALE  OF  TELEGRAPH  HILL, 
SAN    FRANCISCO. 

It  would,  indeed,  be  unwarrantable  pre 
sumption  to  rechristen  the  seventh  in  the 
Giomi  household;  for  if  there  existed  any 
thing  of  which  the  child  could  claim  a  suffi 
ciency,  it  was  names ;  and  these  had  received 
such  solemnization  as  falls  unfrequently  to 
the  lot  of  the  lowly. 

A  many-shrined  saint  in  the  cr  endar 
of  Mother  Church  had  been  pronounced  his 
patron. 

A  worthy  man  and  worthier  woman  of 
the  flesh,  at  an  early  date,  after  his  advent 
into  this  valley  of  humiliation,  had  stood 
sponsors  at  his  christening. 

The  two  respectable  and  most  industri 
ous  persons,  directly  responsible  for  his  pres- 


10     THE    AWAKECTIN&   O?    POCCALITO 

ence  here,  had  caused  the  following  entry 
to  be  made  in  the  yellow-leaved,  dusty, 
musty  date  book,  filed  within  the  shadowy 
archives  of  old  St.  Francis'  Church — "Fran 
cisco  Sebastian  Tomasso  Fugazi  Giomi, 
born  February  I3th,  18 — ,  San  Francisco, 
California." 

Despite  the  foregoing  facts,  however,  he 
was  called  Poccalito  and  Poccalito,  so  far 
as  this  narrative  is  concerned,  he  shall  re 
main. 

Truth  to  tell,  the  sobriquet  seemed  not 
inapt,  the  word  Poccalito  interpreted  from 
the  mellow  Latin,  being  "little  one,"  and, 
in  this  instance,  apposite;  for  about  the 
misshapen  hump,  borne  above  the  boy's  nar 
row  shoulders;  his  spikey  arms,  lean  legs, 
infantile  feet,  the  weazened  countenance, 
topped  by  a  shock  of  stringy,  unkempt  hair, 
was  written  the  inexorable  law  of  econ 
omy. 

Never,  in  all  his  little  life,  had  Poccalito 
known  what  it  was  to  have  enough  of  any 
thing.  Scrimped  in  his  food,  his  clothing, 
his  time,  his  affections,  his  education,  his 
companionship,  his  bit  of  navigable  space, 
this  offspring  of  human  discrepancy  pre- 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO     11 

sented  a  picture,  comparable  to  the  desert, 
if  shorn  of  breadth,  length,  mirages  and 
skies  of  cloud  and  blue. 

Mother  Nature  to  Poccalito,  had  been 
niggardly. 

Even  his  arrival  into  this  world,  would, 
with  thankfulness,  have  been  averted. 
There  were  so  many  before  him  in  the 
cramped  quarters,  where  he  first  caught  the 
breath  of  this  woe-begotten  life!  What 
wonder  that  his  diminutive  dimensions  were 
there  grudgingly  given  space! 

Giomi — the  elder — Poccalito's  father — 
was  one  of  the  many  crab  fishermen 
of  San  Francisco,  who  manage  to 
snatch  a  living  from  those  freakish 
tides  that  surge  in  the  short,  still  hours 
when  "midnight  whitens  into  morn."  All 
weathers — wind,  rain,  fog,  or  fair — found 
this  faithful  follower  of  the  Apostolic  craft 
on  his  way  to  the  wide,  net-hung  wharf  by 
the  city's  seawall,  there  to  join  the  swarthy- 
skinned  brotherhood  of  the  low-built,  la 
teen-sailed  boats. 

The  good  wife — Poccalito's  mother — 
made  the  early  breakfast  and  saw  that  the 
simple  luncheon  of  bread,  meat  and  wine 


12      THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO 

was  in  the  hands  of  her  spouse,  as  he  set 
forth  for  the  long  day's  "catch." 

The  real  labor  of  her  day  then  began; 
in  that  day  there  was  bread  to  be  baked, 
(bread  for  eleven)  washing  of  garments 
for  the  younger  ones,  while  they  slept; 
breakfast  to  be  prepared  and  for  those  in 
attendance  at  the  day  school,  certain  atten 
tions,  as  to  dress,  bestowed.  Poccalito,  be 
ing  crippled,  was  excused  from  school,  and 
so,  the  business  of  tending  the  baby  fell  to 
him. 

There  was  always  a  baby  in  the  Giomi 
household.  During  the  day,  in  those  hours 
while  baby  obligingly  slept,  Poccalito 
helped  his  mother  with  the  weaving,  for, 
in  addition  to  her  innumerable  tasks,  Ma- 
dama  Giomi  made  and  repaired  nets,  such 
as  fishermen  use  in  their  work,  thus  add 
ing  to  the  family  income. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  dreadful  indus 
try,  however,  the  Giomis  were  very  poor, 
for  crab  fishing,  in  the  City  of  the  Golden 
Gate  is  a  cruel  monopoly.  The  bloused, 
tarn-capped,  round-ear-ringed,  little  brown 
men  of  the  Latin  race,  who  rise  so  long  be 
fore  the  sun,  to  face  the  fickle  tides,  in  the 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO     13 

twilight  of  the  morning,  may  claim  but  a 
small  share  from  their  toil's  accruement. 
What,  with  the  wharf  hire,  net  hire,  boat 
hire  and  demands  of  the  commission  mer 
chants,  little  is  left  for  the  crab-fisher's 
patient  pains. 

It  followed,  therefore,  that  with  the  best 
efforts  of  the  united  Giomis,  they  remained 
at  the  end  of  each  year,  financially,  about 
where  they  began. 

To  be  sure  they  owned  property,  con 
sisting  of  a  bit  of  ground  and  a  four-roomed 
timber  cottage  on  Telegraph  Hill,  an  im 
posing  promontory,  of  superb  scenic  propor 
tions,  but  of  soil  and  social  texture,  con 
ceded  to  be  the  poorest  upon  the  whole  sea- 
sprayed  peninsula. 

A  sprinkling  of  scrub  oak,  madrone  and 
manzanita  comprised  its  original  herbage, 
but  these  for  the  most  part,  had  been 
cleared,  to  give  place  to  vegetable  gardens, 
flower  beds,  a  few  eucalyptus  trees  and  such 
sublunary  habitations  as  the  Giomi's.  'An 
enterprising  German,  tenderly  mindful  of 
the  Fatherland  and  his  Mother  Rhine,  had 
topped  the  hill  with  a  tower  and  equipped 
it  with  telescopes  and  other  scenic  appur- 


14     THE    AWAKENING    OP    POCCALITO 

tenances;  a  cable,  extending  from  the  hill's 
base  to  its  summit,  received  the  patronage 
of  tourists  and  the  artist  class;  but  this 
public  benefaction,  proving  a  pecuniary 
failure,  resulted  in  the  withdrawal  of  the 
cabled  coaches. 

The  tower  lapsed  into  disuse,  save  for 
the  birds,  bats  and  kindred  feathered  folk, 
that  lodged  in  its  humanly  abandoned  bat 
tlements. 

The  Gothic  buttresses  moulded  and 
rotted  under  the  ocean's  ozoned  spray; 
storm,  sun  and  rains  left  their  scars  on 
the  grim  turrets,  all  of  which  gave  the  hill 
a  complexion  of  the  picturesque. 

The  Giomis  and  their  neighbors  who  oc 
cupied  the  lower  steeps,  gave  genuine  evi 
dence  of  the  artistic  appreciation,  as  they 
were  wont  to  speak,  with  becoming  pride, 
of  "our  castle." 

With  their  castle  of  exceptional  im- 
pressiveness,  their  legal  title  to  a  scrap  of 
earth,  their  wood  cottages,  their  work  and 
their  wage,  the  hill  people  occupied,  os 
tensibly,  a  position  of  narrow  inde 
pendence.  Had  their  realty  remained  unto 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    FOCCALITO     15 

them  inviolate,  such  position  might  have 
been  maintained,  but  unfortunately  for 
them,  the  bartizan-browed  hill  contained 
rock,  of  a  gade  desired  for  street  and  other 
public  improvements. 

Why  Nob  Hill,  Russian  Hill,  Pacific 
Heights,  or  any  other  residential  eminence, 
within  the  limits  of  the  many-parapeted 
metropolis  was  not  sought,  for  the  prescrib 
ed  grade  of  rock  is  not  apparent,  except 
that  the  latter,  being  homes  of  the  rich,  are 
exempt  from  municipal  molestation. 

To  a  company  of  sordid  street  contrac 
tors,  bent  upon  getting  the  most  raw  ma 
terial  for  the  least  money,  what  matter, 
whether  or  not,  a  few  "Dagos"  as  they  were 
designated,  lost  their  homes? 

Well,  indeed,  did  those  politically- 
favored  officials  know,  the  small  fry  of  the 
hill  had  not  the  means  for  presentation  of 
their  claims  in  court,  the  contest  of  injunc 
tion  suits,  neither  the  needed  knowledge  of 
American  language  and  law,  requisite  to  an 
appeal  before  a  trust-mantled  tribunal. 

It  followed  that  of  the  Giomi  acreage, 
which  comprised  at  the  date  of  purchase, 
a  moderately  fruitful  slope,  where  flowers 


16     THE    AWAKEKllTa    OP    POCCAI.ITO 

bloomed  perennially  and  succulent  veget 
ables  throve  and  bearded  goats  browsed 
and  gray  stones  thrust  their  scarred  faces 
through  twining  creepers,  naught  remained, 
save  a  narrow  shelf  above  a  sheer  wall, 
which  frequent  blasting  and  constant  tun 
neling,  threatened  sure  destruction. 

To  the  hill  people,  whose  estates  were 
thus,  by  official  behest,  fast  crumbling  be 
neath  their  helpless  feet,  no  recompense  was 
offered,  no  reimbursement  made. 

As  Giomi — the  elder — watched  the  foun 
dations  of  his  home  being  daily  carted  away, 
what  wonder  that  he  muttered  bitterly  in 
the  depths  of  his  sun-tanned  throat,  "God 
help  the  poor,  the  rich  can  steal!" 

From  his  perch  upon  the  narrow  porch, 
fronting  the  natal  nest,  roofing  the  sheer 
wall's  surface,  where  it  was  his  habit  to  sit 
in  sunny  weather  and  mind  the  ever-present 
baby,  or  help  his  mother  with  the  never- 
ending  nets,  Poccalito  likewise  watched  the 
gangs  of  rock-cutters,  carters,  drillers,  blast 
ers,  crushers,  while  engaged  in  that  wanton 
wreckage  of  what  held  all  the  boy  knew 
of  home;  but — with  impressions  vastly  dif 
ferent  from  those  entertained  by  his  sire. 


THE    AWAKENIWO    OP    FOCCALITO      17 

In  the  son's  innocent  thought,  those  men, 
with  their  cumbersome  tools  of  toil,  were 
simply  brethren  of  the  spade,  spike,  pick  and 
adze,  whose  constant  employment,  since  he 
knew  not  its  purpose,  furnished  sources  of 
human  comradeship,  which  served  rather  to 
inspire  than  depress;  for  Poccalito  was 
only  a  child,  who  knew  naught  of  politics, 
sociology,  injustice,  corruption,  nor  any  of 
the  class  distinctions  borne  by  the  strange 
systems  of  men.  What,  to  him,  was  misery 
or  happiness?  pleasure  or  pain?  honor  or 
disgrace?  wealth  or  poverty? 

His  short  life  had  been  eventless 
and  serene  as  the  shining  river  that 
flows  ever  between  willow-fringed  banks 
and  pebbly  shallows,  unswollen  by  shower, 
unshrunken  by  drouth,  unrippled  by  reach 
of  summer  cloud;  but — there  came  an 
awakening,  when  Poccalito  was  doomed  to 
exchange  the  sylvan  fields  of  contentment, 
for  the  desolating  desert  of  unrest. 

To  many  another,  the  date  is  unforget 
table;  that  of  the  25th  May  1898, 
when,  in  response  to  their  country's  call, 
the  Native  Sons  of  California,  went  forth 
to  face  the  flinty  front  of  war.  Volunteers 


18     TEE    AWAKENING    OP   FOCCA&ITO 

were  wanted  for  the  United  States  Army 
in  the  Philippines  and  these,  our  youths, 
in  life's  beautiful  morning,  gathered  from 
hill  and  vale,  meadow  and  mountain  side; 
forsaking  the  mines,  vines,  plow,  store,  of 
fice,  schoolhouse,  mill  and  whatever  else  of 
business  or  pleasure  that  engaged  them,  to 
don  the  soldier's  garb  of  blue  and  grey. 

Up  from  the  ranks  of  the  militia  they 
rose,  to  serve  with  their  brother  civilians, 
all  stirred  by  a  kindred  sentiment,  each 
moved  by  a  common  cause — the  defense  of 
their  flag.  And  that  flag,  as  its  folds  pic 
tured  the  trafficking  streets,  streamed  from 
every  eminence,  curtained  the  yellow  sun, 
stiffened  to  every  breeze,  starred  the  ships' 
sails  on  the  blue  of  the  bay,  gave  eloquent 
tongue  to  the  cause.  It  sustained  them,  as 
they  moved  in  bayonetted  battalions,  from 
the  freshly-tented  Presidio,  through  throng- 
lined  thoroughfares,  to  the  city's  water 
front,  amid  the  deafening  din  of  guns, 
sirens,  bombs,  cheers,  music,  megaphones 
and  all  that  combined  to  make  pageantry 
imposing. 

"It's  all  for  Old  Glory"— they  said,  in 
one  exultant  voice,  as  the  sobs  were  choked 


THE    AWAKENING*    OF    POCCALITO      19 

back,  hands  clasped,  parting  tokens  ex 
changed,  gift  garlands  pressed  to  quivering 
lips,  the  final  words  spoken  (brave,  noble, 
heroic  words)  that  told  of  daring  and  do 
ing  and  dying. 

Right  royally  were  they  escorted,  as  they 
sailed  through  the  purple  pillared  portal 
— the  Golden  Gate. 

Stately  yachts,  the  offspring  of  luxury 
and  leisure,  spread  their  snowy  sails  and 
condescended  to  salute  the  soldier  sons  of 
the  State.  Matronly  schooners  and  lumber 
ing  stern-wheelers,  vied  with  one  another  in 
solicitude,  ear-piercing  and  prolonged. 
Tugs,  sloops,  smacks,  brigs  and  barkentines 
puffed  out  their  "god-speeds"  even  to  trie 
edge  of  old  Neptune's  main.  Stuffy  gaso 
line  launches,  freighted  to  perspiring  ca 
pacity,  coughed  up  their  "goodbyes"  as  far 
out  as  the  sea  swells  would  let  them. 

Trim  Gussies,  Carries,  Mamies,  Merties, 
Susies — fair  weather  built  vessels — one  and 
all,  with  banners  fluttering  and  string  bands 
vibrating,  steamed  across  the  bar  for  the 
sake  of  the  dear  boys.  Row  boats  rose  to 
the  occasion,  sculling  in  the  shadow  of  grim 
gun  boats,  conveying  tender  traffic  to  the 


20      THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO 

newly  created  heroes.  The  launch  of  the 
Red  Cross,  faithful  to  her  merciful  minis 
trations,  was  the  last  to  take  leave  of  the 
troopers. 

Then,  with  a  farewell  from  the  brazen 
throats  of  fortressed  Alcatraz,  which  the 
steadfast  hills  repeated  and  re-repeated,  the 
white  mists  of  the  sea  closed  over  them  and 
they  were  gone — as  the  dream  things  of  our 
sleep ! 

Witnessed  by  Poccalito  from  his  eyrie  on 
the  cliff's  shelf,  these  scenes  and  sounds 
awoke  a  wizard  wisdom,  which  bore  him 
far  and  irretraceably,  beyond  the  border 
lands  of  childhood;  for  with  indefinable 
intuition,  the  ghostly  heritage  of  the  af 
flicted,  he  knew,  that  not  for  him  was  brass- 
buttoned  uniform  of  blue,  star-blent  banner, 
neighing  steed,  spirit-stirring  drum,  shrill 
trump,  nor  leaves  of  bloom  and  bay. 

Not  for  him  the  "pride,  pomp  and  circum 
stance  of  glorious  war;"  he  could  never 
be  a  soldier.  With  this  crushing  conscious 
ness,  the  hump  on  his  back  seemed  insup 
portable,  his  misshapen  little  feet  became 
enormous  leaden  clods.  With  this  esoteric 
glimpse  at  his  own  meagerness,  a  shrivelling 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO      21 

mortification  seized  him;  his  clothes,  the 
cast-off  of  elder  brothers,  at  first  hand  not 
by  any  means  first-class,  were  but  shreds 
and  patches.  Any  old  thing  was  thought  to 
be  good  enough  for  a  boy  to  wear,  who 
could  not  walk  and  did  not  go  to  school. 

In  the  matter  of  boots,  there  was,  for  the 
little  cripple,  an  even  more  forlorn  dispo 
sition,  such  as  fell  to  him  being,  not  merely 
second,  but  third  or  fourth  hand,  always 
ill-fitting,  miserably  scuffed  and  down  at 
the  heel. 

Except  a  garment,  in  its  tattered 
insufficiency,  caused  him  to  shiver  with  cold, 
or  a  coarse  brogan,  contained  a  protruding 
nail,  or  a  pebble  secreted  in  gaping  soles, 
pierced  his  flesh,  Poccalito  had  not  suffered ; 
he  had  not  felt  this  mean  apparelling  to 
have  been  a  degradation;  but,  by  contrast 
with  the  lithe-limbed,  straight-backed  sol 
diers,  so  splendid  in  their  new  regimentals 
upon  this,  the  day  of  his  broader  vision,  the 
spectacle  of  being  merely  a  receiver  of  dis 
carded  clothes,  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

In  all  his  life  to  come  and  it  widened 
away  interminably,  he  could  not  hope  to  be 
other  than  what  he  was — a  domestic  dolt, 


22      THE    AWAKSNIHQ    OP    POCCALITO 

a  drudge,  a  clod,  a  cumberer  of  the  earth, 
a  creature  in  the  way.  To  this  starved  son 
of  opulent  California,  the  thought,  with  the 
swallowing  despair  of  it,  gave  him  a  tight 
ening  of  the  throat,  akin  to  strangulation. 

How  old  had  he  grown  in  those  few 
hours!  To  what  desert  solitudes  did  he 
suddenly  find  himself  doomed!  There 
could  be  no  return  to  the  unknowing,  in 
different  contentment,  which  had  formed 
the  sum  of  this  boy's  yesterday.  On  and  on 
forever,  in  company  with  all  discoverers, 
must  he  yearn  and  sigh  and  pine  and  wait 
and  wonder  and  despair,  for  this  is  the  in 
evitable  penalty  of  progression. 

The  spring  of  San  Francisco  merged 
into  mid-summer,  with  no  discernible 
change  of  climate,  except  for  the  riotous 
trade-winds,  that  rose  at  each  mid-day  and 
continued  until  set  of  sun.  The  vernal  hills 
seared  in  the  sun's  searching  rays.  Flag- 
lilies  ceased  to  bloom  beside  star-eyed  mar 
guerites.  The  poppies  closed  their  satin 
petals  to  yellow  the  slopes  no  more,  until 
next  year. 

The  gossamer  haze  that  hung,  as  a  veil, 
upon  Mount  Tamalpais  and  loftier  lifts  of 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    FOCCALITO     23 

the  coast  thickened,  as  it  descended  and 
wrapped  blanketing  folds  about  the  storm- 
swathed  city. 

At  the  Giomi  domicile,  the  passing  sea 
sons  brought  no  perceptible  change,  since 
life  to  the  poor  admits  of  little  variety. 
Work,  always  work,  from  stark  morn  to 
starry  eve,  is  the  routine,  year  in,  year  out. 
With  the  excavators  of  the  hill,  there  oc 
curred  a  brief  suspension  of  activities  and 
one  day,  when  Giomi — the  elder — returned 
a  little  earlier  than  custom  usually  per 
mitted,  from  his  cruise  among  the  crab  cav 
erns,  a  surprise  awaited  him  in  the  form 
of  an  official  visitation;  it  had  been  long 
deferred.  The  wonder  was  that  it  came 
at  all. 

The  remaining  declivity  occupied  by  the 
Giomi  cottage  was  wanted  for  the  augmen 
tation  of  public  utility,  the  officials  ex 
plained.  "Could  it  be — purchased?" 

With  scorn — long  smothered — in  his  sul 
try  eyes,  the  beggarly  bit  of  Little  Italy 
glared  inflammably  at  some  of  the  minor 
representatives  of  the  earth's  greatest  nation 
and  then,  in  feeble,  but  feeling  English, 
hissed — 


24     THE    AWAKENING    OP    POCCAZ.ITO 

"You  takka  my  land.  My  goats,  they 
starve.  My  hens  you  kill.  The  cow, 
she  die,  she  not  have  feed.  You  gitta  my 
garden.  Now  you  wantta  my  house.  No! 
No!  pigs!  thieves!  robbers!  Go  home!" 

And  so  they  were  dismissed. 

Well  did  Giomi — the  elder — know  that 
the  price  to  be  proffered  for  his  shrunken 
estate  (the  cottage  was  not  wanted  ) would 
barely  cover  the  cost  of  removal,  much  less 
purchase  a  new  home  elsewhere.  The  pay 
ment  of  rent  was,  to  him,  unthinkable  and 
so,  with  his  growing  brood,  he  remained 
on  the  scrappy  shelf  of  stone. 

The  sun  bronzed  and  brightened  it  with 
rays  of  ruby,  amber  and  jasper,  so  much 
more  kindly  is  the  Creator  than  are  His 
creatures. 

The  autumnal  fogs  fell  protectingly  over 
it,  clothing  with  mantles  of  pearl,  ivory  and 
silver  gray,  the  spare,  bald,  riven  spaces. 
The  winds  softened  to  soothing  lullabys, 
for  the  trades  spent  themselves  before  reach 
ing  this  sheltered  cove  upon  the  hillside. 

With  the  approach  of  winter  the  long 
days  shortened.  The  rain  came  in  torrents, 
sheets  and  saturating  shrouds;  windless, 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO     25 

thunderless,  frostless,  soundless,  straight 
down  from  the  dun-dyed  clouds. 

The  year  passed.  With  the  birth  of  the 
new  came  Poccalito's  God-Father,  Antoine 
Martinello,  on  his  annual  visit  to  the  gull's 
nest,  as  he  called  Giomi's  niche,  because  a 
sea  gull  had  once  nested  there. 

Martinello  was  a  vegetable  vender,  who 
hawked  on  the  public  highway,  his  own 
green  and  succulent  wares.  "Cauliflowers! 
Asparagus!  Squashes!  Lettuce!  Celery! 
Beans !  Peas !  Cucumbers !  fresh,  all  fresh  to 
day!" 

His  cart  and  horse  were  familiar  in 
the  Latin  quarter,  as  well  as  a  joy  to  child 
ren  of  the  streets,  whom  he  frequently  fa 
vored  with  a  ride,  after  the  vehicle's  con 
tents  were  disposed  of,  out,  away  from  their 
forlorn  locality,  to  where  the  grass  grows 
and  the  reaching  waves  clasp  the  shore. 

When  rains  prevented  this  mutually 
agreeable  outing,  Martinello  held  in  reserve 
another  means  of  bringing  smiles  to  the 
faces  of  neglected  little  ones.  Of  his  day's 
stock  in  trade,  which  included  some  of  the 
seasonable  fruits,  there  was  rarely  a  com 
plete  "clean-up."  To  most  venders  of  per- 


26     THE    AWAKENING    OP    FOCCAX.ITO 

ishable  stuffs,  this  condition  is  deplored; 
not  so,  however,  with  Martinello,  since  his 
left-over  commodities  found  ready  distribu 
tion  among  his  little  love  customers,  as  they 
were  called, — those  waifs  of  wpant  and  woe, 
whose  present  needs  are  ever  in  excess  of 
their  supplies.  In  San  Francisco's  poorer 
districts,  herd  children,  uncensused,  that 
would  not,  probably,  know  the  taste  of  Cal 
ifornia  fruits,  but  for  Martinello. 

It  was  his  benign  front  that  fell  athwart 
the  Giomi  threshold,  on  a  morning,  her 
alded  by  bells  and  kindred  reverberating  in 
struments,  as  a  glad  New  Year. 

"Well,  Poccalito!"  said  the  little  father, 
after  the  conventional  salutations  were 
passed, — "You  will  soon  be  ten,  almost  a 
man!"  Even  as  the  little  father  spoke,  the 
words  conveyed  a  misnomer,  as  Poccalito 
had  never  before  presented  a  picture  more 
lean,  languid,  colorless ;  more  removed  from 
the  physical  conception  of  manhood.  More 
over,  there  was,  in  the  boy's  haggard  coun 
tenance,  an  expression  which  had  not  been 
visible  the  year  previous,  one  of  hopeless  de 
pression,  pathetic  indeed  to  behold  in  one  so 
young. 


THE    AWAKENING    OP    POCCAZ.ITO     27 

"I  see  you've  been  stopping  too  much  in 
the  house!"  rejoined  Martinello, — "I  must 
take  you  out  where  the  sunflowers  grow, 
Eh!  Poccalito!"  With  this,  a  glint  of 
what  makes  the  sunflowers  turn  their  faces, 
crossed  the  boy's  pinched  face.  "I'll  take 
you  to-morrow,  if  it  is  fine." 

''But — Nannetta — "  interposed  Madama 
Giomi,  referring  to  the  baby, — "I  not  can 
spare  Poccalito."  Here  was  an  obstacle, 
to  be  sure,  but  father  Antoine  proved  him 
self  equal  to  it,  by  proposing  that  Nannetta 
be  placed  during  the  brother's  absence,  in  a 
child's  nursery  adjacent;  in  fact,  he  (An 
toine)  agreed  to  carry  and  fetch  her,  and 
so,  the  mother  consenting  ,  Poccalito  again 
saw  the  source  of  the  sunflowers'  growth. 

But  on  the  morrow  the  rain  came  in 
sheets, — it  would  not  be  amiss  to  say,  blank 
ets — which  made  the  rivuleted,  unpaved 
roads  so  slippery  that  Martinello  himself 
could  not,  with  safety,  attempt  a  passage, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  danger  to  beast  and 
cart. 

A  big  wind  swept  up  from  the  south-lands, 
hurricaning  the  hills,  skurrying  the  streets, 
careering  in  the  valleys,  wailing  in  house 


28     THE    AWAKENING    OF    FOCCALITO 

crevices,  heightening  the  whitecaps  on  the 
bay.  This  meant  that  the  rain  had  come 
to  stay. 

Alas!  for  Poccalito!  Alas!  for  all  the 
children  of  the  little  father!  To  them,  the 
rains  bring  cold,  hunger,  disease,  death — for 
without  the  sun  in  California,  the  poor  are 
doubly  disinherited;  their  places  of  abode 
being,  at  best,  but  small,  thin-walled,  cheap 
ly  constructed  timber  tenements,  unpro 
vided  with  heating  facilities,  few  of  which 
contain  even  chimneys. 

Cooking,  except  the  family  go  to  restaur 
ants  for  food,  is  performed  by  the  aid  of 
coal  oil  lamps. 

The  effect  of  this  cramped,  cheerless  ex 
istence  upon  the  little  people,  is  better  im 
agined  than  described.  Happily  for  them, 
the  rain  season  varies  and  is  dispelled  by 
sunshine,  that  signal  for  outdoor  life,  wel 
comed  by  all  growing  things.  Thrice  wel 
come  was  the  golden  globe,  in  the 
scrappy  tent  of  blue,  visible  from  the  narrow 
window  where  Poccalito  watched  and 
waited,  for  he  knew  the  little  father  would 
not  disappoint  him  and  he  did  not. 

In  the  year  of  grace  here  chronicled,  there 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    POCCALITO     29 

had  been  unusual  rainfall,  alternated  by 
thick  fogs  and  chilling  winds,  at  least,  so 
said  the  pioneers  and  they  ought  to  know. 
"The  climate  of  California  is  changing. 
Why!  When  we  came  here  in  forty-nine, 
there  was  no  need  of  fire  in  camp,  save  for 
cooking;  if  it  keeps  on  in  this  way  we  shall 
have  snow.  The  change  is  due,  doubtless, 
to  the  destruction  of  the  forests.  When 
the  snow  comes  and  the  big  trees  are  all 
gone,  it  wont  any  more  be  California  for 
us." 

This,  the  verdict  of  the  path-finders. 
Hence,  it  happened,  that  by  the  time  An- 
toine  and  his  outfit  again  appeared  on  the 
castellated  hill,  winter  had  well  nigh  passed. 

Wistfully  had  they  been  awaited  and 
now, — happy  Poccalito! 

To  live  but  one  day  in  the  open,  under  the 
wide,  paternal  sky,  away  from  the  thrall- 
dom  of  coal  oil  stoves,  grimy  walls,  sicken 
ing  stenches,  net-weaving,  baby-minding 
and  all  the  indoor,  enervating,  never-ending 
routine!  This  was  happiness! 

Night  mists  yet  lingered  upon  the  Marin 
hills.  The  near  patches  of  shrub  showed 


30     THE    AWAKENING    OP    POCCALITO 

jeweled  damps  in  the  struggling  beams  of 
the  morning,  for  the  day  was  still  young. 

"It's  going  to  be  fine!" — remarked  Mar- 
tinello,  who  had  made  a  study  of  weather 
as  well  as  of  children.  "We've  waited  long 
for  it,  haven't  we,  Poccalito?" 

"But — I  knew  it  would  come  and  with 
it,  you,  pater!"  the  boy  replied. 

"Now  that  I  am  come,  how  are  you,  chi- 
quito?  How  much  do  you  weigh?" 

Poccalito's  chin  fell,  his  eye-lids  drooped, 
his  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper  as  he 
said,  apologetically  —  "Only  thirty  -  five 
pounds." 

"Well,  we  shall  pick  up  now,  the  rain 
is  over  and  you'll  be  able  to  get  into  the 
sun!"  responded  the  little  father,  hopefully. 

The  two  mounted  the  cart  and  mince- 
ingly  descended  the  scraggy  hill,  freshly 
furrowed  by  the  recent  deluge;  then — fol 
lowing  the  cobble-stoned  street, — jogged,  at 
a  pace  as  rapid  as  the  nag's  capacity  per 
mitted,  along  the  dingy,  dilapidated,  an 
cient  quarter,  known  as  the  Barbary  Coast ; 
through  lurid,  narrow-laned,  red-lanterned 
Chinatown ;  between  low,  shed-like  shops ; 
past  gored  blocks,  glass-fronted  grill 


THE    AWAKENING    OP    FOCCAI.ITO      31 

rooms;  bay-windowed,  balconied  clubs  and 
caravanseries ;  frowning  facades  of  brown 
etone, — the  lone,  lifeless  mansions  of  the 
rich — thence  to  the  Old  Mission  and  San 
Bruno  road,  that  lead  to  the  domain  of  the 
dairies  and  Italian  vegetable  gardens. 

A  noticeable  pair  was  Martinello  and 
Poccalito,  seen  in  the  tender  solicitude 
of  the  elder,  the  helpless  dependence,  but 
deferential  devotion  of  the  child — a  rare 
combination  in  a  city,  conspicuous  for  its  ir 
reverence  toward  youth  and  age;  its  dire 
dearth  of  family  life. 

"They  ought  to  kill  us  off,  directly  we've 
turned  fifty!"  is  the  tragic  declaration  of 
many  an  old-timer,  who  finds  himself 
doomed  to  the  forsaken  solitudes,  because, 
in  earlier  years,  he  ignored  the  scriptural 
injunction  to  "increase,  multiply  and  replen 
ish  the  earth." 

The  lorn  and  loveless  lives,  that  so  fre 
quently  end  in  suicide,  in  this  State  of  hu 
man  desolation,  bear  mute  but  appalling 
testimony  to  the  evils  of  individualism. 

Antoine  Martinello  had  grown  lean  and 
grizzled  in  the  science  of  market-gardening, 
for,  when  he  came  with  his  wife  and  a  col- 


32     THE    AWAKENING    OF    FOCCALITO 

ony  of  immigrants  to  California,  back  in 
the  glamorous  fifties,  his  eyes  were  lustrous, 
his  locks  as  ringed  and  jetty,  as  were  those 
recorded  in  Holy  Writ,  which  brought  de 
light  to  the  eyes  of  Judea's  daughters,  bent, 
in  witching  dalliance,  toward  beauteous 
Absalom. 

Giovanna,  the  wife,  a  simple,  un 
schooled  soul,  met  with  injury  which 
terminated  in  death,  by  the  fall  of  bricks 
from  a  chimney,  shattered  in  a  second's  du 
ration,  when  an  earthquake  of  memorable 
severity,  toppled  about  all  the  soot-pots  of 
the  section. 

The  child,  little  Antoine,  left  to  the  un- 
tender  mercies  of  volunteered  attention, 
pined  and  drooped  and  soon  followed  his 
mother,  which  doleful  domestic  event  left 
the  young  husband  and  father,  doubly  deso 
late.  It  may  have  been  the  love  born  of 
the  union  with  those  clinging  souls,  that  gave 
Martinello  the  look  which  closely  reading 
people  called  "haunting."  Certain  it  is, 
that  the  photography  of  affection  cannot  be 
effaced.  Some  remnant  of  it,  even  upon 
faces  most  seamed  with  vice,  remains  until 
the  end  of  life. 


THE    AWAKENING    OP    FOCCALITO     33 

Of  the  things  which  had  wrought  the  tell 
tale  compassion  in  his  countenance,  Mar- 
tinello  gave  no  sign,  other  than  the  whiten 
ing  of  his  hair,  a  sphinx-like  sculpturing  of 
lips,  a  settled  sadness  in  his  glowing  eyes; 
but,  such  was  the  man's  unremitting  re 
membrance  of  his  loved  and  lost,  that  no 
woman  who  bore  bundle  or  baby  ever 
passed  his  cart  on  the  long 'country  roads, 
without  being  graciously  invited  to  ride  and 
rest. 

As  this  singular  escort  and  his  small 
charge,  with  each  turn  of  the  cart  wheels, 
emerged  from  the  city's  thronged  arteries, 
into  a  purer  atmosphere  of  the  less  populous 
slopes,  new  life  as  it  were,  infused  the  boy's 
feeble  frame. 

Inhaling  the  myriad  scents,  borne,  sweet 
and  vivifying,  from  Mother  earth,  reborn, 
it  would  seem,  after  the  copious  rains;  be 
holding  the  glossy  skinned  herds  of  Hoi- 
steins,  Durhams,  Jerseys,  Alderneys  and 
their  young,  that  enlivened  the  billowy 
grazing  grounds,  Poccalito  could  not  but 
feel,  to  the  depths  of  his  starved  heart,  not 
withstanding  the  hump  and  the  limp,  it  was 


34     THE    AWAKENING   OF    POCCAI.ITO 

good  to  live,  even  though  he  could  never  be 
a  soldier. 

How  cordial  the  inhabitants  of  this  new 
wonder  land !  The  butter-cups  and  daisies 
nodded  their  dainty  heads  as  they  passed  by. 
A  robin  sat  on  a  swaying  mustard  stalk  and 
saluted;  as  he  sang,  thus  did  Poccalito  in 
terpret  the  glad  carol, — "Good  morning, 
little  brother!  I  am  glad  you  are  here." 

The  industrious  sparrows  found  time  to 
say, — "We  love  you  all  the  better  because 
you  are  not  like  other  people!"  Every 
streaked,  mottled,  brown,  brindle,  or  white 
throat,  that  lifted  from  lush  leaves  where 
the  marsh-mallows  bloom,  breathed  the 
same  gentle  salutation.  "We  are  glad  you 
are  here,  little  brother!" 

Where  moist,  loamy  sands  make  velvet 
walled  nurseries  for  the  seeds  and  bulbs 
and  roots,  that  nestle  beneath  ribbon  beds 
of  cresses,  artichokes,  corn  and  kindred 
things  among  earth's  kindly  fruits,  the  pa 
tient  cart  horse  stopped. 

"While  Rhodie  has  her  lunch,  we  shall 
have  our  breakfast;  you  must  be  hungry, 
Poccalito!  I  am!"  said  Rhodie's  master. 

The  crisp,  eager  air  of  the  morning  had 


THE    AWAKENING    OP    FOCCALITO     35 

whetted  an  appetite,  customarily  torpid, 
which  the  lad  admitted. 

"A  Wayfarer's  Rest,"  situated  near  the 
garden's  margin,  received  Martinello's 
order  for  raviolis. 

"Raviolis!  a  feast  dish,  Carol"  exclaimed 
Poccalito. 

"Well,  why  not?  I  want  you  to  get 
fat  and  red,  so  you  shall  have  milk  as  well, 
a  whole  quart  if  you  can  drink  it  and  after 
the  raviolis,  I  have  some  bananas  for  you." 
What  a  feast!  the  like  of  it  Poccalito  had 
not  until  then,  known. 

After  the  breakfast,  Poccalito,  eager  to 
explore  the  grounds,  hobbled,  with  as  much 
agility  as  he  could  command,  about  the  ar- 
bored  aisles,  that  served  to  separate  the  bean 
beds  from  tomatoes,  squash  vines  from  peas, 
parsnips  from  melons  and  so  on,  to  the 
toothsome  end. 

Noting  the  difficulties  of  pedestrianism, 
the  boy's  guardian,  ever  solicitous,  sug 
gested  that  he  discard  his  shoes.  Where 
upon,  two  tiny  feet  were  slipped  from  the 
coarse,  misshapen  old  leather  that  covered 
them  and  unshod,  unshackled,  the  child 
made  better  his  way  over  the  moist  ground 


36     THE    AWAKENING    OF    FOCCALITO 

and   its  green,    caressing    carpet  of  young 
leaves. 

Truly,  it  was  a  sensation  which  children 
cf  larger  growth  may,  with  profit,  expe 
rience — this  clasp  of  our  grim  but  generous 
old  Mother,  earth,  upon  the  porous  foot 
soles. 

Let  those  of  aching  joints  and  jaded 
nerves  try  the  experiment. 

So  gratifying  did  this  promenade  prove 
to  the  little  cripple,  that  even  his  infirmity, 
as  an  ill-fitting  mantle,  fell  away    leaving 
him  rejuvenated,  beautiful,  strong. 
*     *     *     * 

That  night,  when  the  moon  lay  upon 
Telegraph  Hill,  Poccalito,  overcome  by  the 
realization  of  one  complete  day,  slept;  but 
not  to  awaken,  rise  before  the  dawn  and  re 
sume  his  accustomed  tasks. 

Only  a  shade  more  waxen,  ashen, 
wraithy,  they  found  him  at  break  of  day, 
clutching  in  his  talon-like  fingers,  a  bunch 
of  withered  poppies;  a  peace  not  of  earth, 
upon  his  rigid  countenance,  for  the  feeble 
life  had  flown ;  and  so,  with  joy,  at  last, 
was  his  awakening  wrought. 


A    MEXICAN    HOLIDAY 


A  MEXICAN  HOLIDAY. 


Walls  leaden,  arched,  tiled,  chiseleu, 
balconied,  garmented  with  green;  gardens 
with  trees  like  the  elms  in  a  druid  forest; 
fountains  splashing  in  sculptured  stone; 
walks  that  lead  through  rainbows  of  blended 
bloom;  churches  domed,  spired,  bell-hung, 
furnished  with  conquestorial  trophies; 
palaces  that  recall  the  bastions  of  Titan 
homes;  lakes  shimmering  in  floods  of 
whitened  sunlight;  volcanoes  wreathed  in 
a  purple  haze;  a  chain  of  encircling  moun 
tains  curving  and  melting  into  mists  of 
turquoise  and  gold;  streets  retrospective  of 
battles,  sieges,  slaughter,  paved  with  pointed 
cobblestones,  lined  with  facades  of  frowning 
gray,  swarming  with  sad-eyed,  swarthy, 
burden-crossed  humanity,  clothed  in  rags, 
devoured  by  vermin,  clamorous  for  coin. 

Estamos  en  Mejicof     (We  are  in  Mex- 


40  A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY 

ico.)  Moreover,  we  are  in  the  ancient 
Aztec  capital — "glorious,  gory  Mexico." 

It  was  Sunday.  A  day  of  feasts  and 
fetes  to  the  rich — of  triple  toil  to  the  task- 
trammeled  poor. 

What  should  we  do,  we  few  forlorn 
foreigners,  sequestered  in  a  strange  land? 
There  is  no  lack  of  entertainment  in  that 
storied  city;  but,  ah!  to  choose! 

The  lovers  of  the  party  suggested  La 
Vega.  1  here  are  gondolas  on  La  Vega, 
curtained  with  the  national  colors,  cush 
ioned  with  fragrant  reeds,  steered  by  skilled 
craftsmen,  withersoe'er  the  stranger  wills, 
in  those  cypress-shadowed  shoals;  past  the 
famous  floating  gardens,  redolent  with 
unnumbered  roses,  beneath  lichen-hung 
bridges  and  abandoned  cause\vays,  mutely 
eloquent  of  a  brilliant,  barbaric  past. 

Here,  too,  are  beings  fantastically  ap 
pareled  in  feather-woven  zarapes  and 
wreaths  of  poppies ;  but  La  Vega,  as  a  Sun 
day  resort,  is  not  sanctioned  by  the  diplo 
matic  arbiters  and  so,  the  gondolas  remained 
moored  in  their  Roman-arched  waters  that 
day;  at  least,  so  far  as  one  small  party  of 
Americanos  was  concerned.  But  people 


A    MEXICAN    HOLIDAY  41 

who  forswear  Venetian  barges,  foliaged 
canals,  floating  gardens  and  views  of  crumb 
ling  Casas  Grandes  must  be  amused  and  the 
edict  of  this  exclusive  class  is  the  bull-fight, 
(though  why  the  butchery  of  bulls  should 
be  more  genteel  than  the  beauties  of  na 
ture  and  art,  is  not  apparent)  ,  however, 
there  is  contagion  in  custom.  To  the  Fiesta 
de  Toros  we  accordingly  went. 

There  are  two  Plazas  de  Toros  in  the 
City  of  Mexico:  one  in  the  vicinity  of  San 
Cosme,  the  other  near  the  northern  end  of 
the  Paseo,  that  famous,  much-frequented 
boulevard,  lined  by  noble  trees,  graced  by 
garlanded  gloriettas,  statued  by  men  cele 
brated  in  Spanish  and  Mexican  history. 

A  long  line  of  carriages  darkened  the 
drive  and  fluent  crowds  clustered  so  closely 
about  the  whirling  wheels  that  a  collision, 
at  certain  stages  seemed  imminent.  Uni 
formed  gendarmes  from  the  Federal  Dis 
trict,  with  revolvers  at  their  belts  and  clubs 
in  their  hands,  succeeded,  to  some  extent,  in 
maintaining  order. 

Greasy,  wrinkled  creatures,  clad  in 
untanned  skins  kept  pace  with  the  coaches; 
they  stop  and  a  scramble  ensues  among 


42  A     MEXICAN    HOLIDAY 

this  slimy  fraction  of  the  great  unwashed, 
for  the  honor  of  swinging  open  the  doors, 
which  secures  to  them  the  few  centavos 
expected  for  this  service. 

We  are  at  the  Amphitheatre.  The 
crowd  thickens;  all  around  it  is  a  perfect 
hive;  ticket  speculators  are  on  the  alert; 
they  have  need  of  deputies  and  a  hundred 
hands.  Venders  of  fruit  and  dukes  fill 
the  air  with  their  cries ;  water  carriers  from 
caverns  cool  are  reaping  their  harvest; 
beggars,  thieves,  destroyers  of  human  con 
fidence  in  every  form,  are  making  the  most 
of  their  opportunity. 

There  are  also  guides  in  ready  attend 
ance,  who,  for  a  stipulated  sum,  will  con 
duct  one  to  those  mysterious  precincts  be 
hind  the  barriers,  sacred  to  the  gladiators 
and  their  associates,  thence  to  the  dark  en 
closures  where  the  doomed  brutes  are  con 
fined. 

Here,  too,  are  their  co-workers — the  in 
terpreters — who  profess  to  translate  every 
language,  living  or  dead;  instruct  the 
stranger  in  the  arts  of  tauromachy,  or  es 
cort  him  to  the  chapel,  where  mass  is  cele 
brated  for  the  toreros  who  go  there  to  pray, 


A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY  43 

confess  and  be  absolved  before  confronting 
the  bulls. 

Boletos  de  Sombre  (shade  tickets)  were 
secured  (tiny  rolls  of  tissue  paper  resemb 
ling  homeopathic  powders)  and  we  pass  in 
to  the  domain  of  chivalry,  as  practiced  by 
the  Castilian  nobles,  who  likewise  welcomed 
the  auto-de-fe  and  the  perfume  of  burning 
flesh;  yet  bull  fighting,  bloody  and  brutal, 
as  it  may  seem  to  dwellers  in  Northern 
latitudes,  is  an  art  so  intricate  and  exhil- 
irating,  as  to  have  commanded  the  attention 
of  the  foremost  sovereigns  of  the  world. 

Charles  V  of  Spain  was  an  ardent  lover 
of  the  sport  and  in  the  reign  of  Philip  IV, 
tauromachy  was  in  its  zenith.  The  grand 
son  of  Philip  II  fought  with  much  success 
in  the  arena,  in  emulation  of  his  illustrious 
ancestor  Charles  V;  but  it  was  a  young 
nobleman  named  Pedro  Romero,  who  bears 
the  honor  of  having  established  the  art  of 
tauromachy,  as,  up  to  his  time,  toward  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  bull  fighting 
was  simply  a  savage  butchery,  devoid  of 
that  grace  of  movement  and  extraordinary 
skill,  which  now  forms  the  chief  charm  of 
the  spectacle. 


44  A    MEXICAN    HOLIDAY 

Pedro  Romero  compiled  for  these  per 
formances  a  set  of  rules,  which  became  the 
standard  code  of  the  combat,  giving  at  the 
same  time,  practical  instructions  to  his  con 
temporaries  in  the  principles  of  the  art  by 
a  heroic  exposure  of  his  own  life,  with  such 
effect  that  his  name  endures  in  the  annals 
of  the  arena,  as  that  of  the  most  illustrious 
of  the  espadas  of  Spain. 

The  history  of  bull  fighting  in  Mexico  is 
but  another  chapter  in  this  fascinating 
sport;  for  there  are  ladies  who  dream 
of  it;  ministers  who  neglect  their  affairs 
for  it;  laborers  who  sacrifice  their 
cigarritos  to  save  a  few  reales  for  the 
day  of  the  fray. 

It  begins  at  three  o'clock,  but  long 
before  that  hour  the  amphitheatre  is 
compactly  filled,  such  is  the  national  ar 
dor.  The  utmost  animation  prevails;  men 
and  women  greet  one  another  joyfully, 
frantically,  after  the  fashion  of  the  effusive 
Southern  race;  fans  are  fluttered,  heads  are 
nodding,  arms  are  gesticulating;  the  varied 
colors, — the  mantillas,  shawls,  zarapes,  par 
asols,  the  murmur  of  many  voices, — all  con 
tribute  to  the  general  gayety. 


A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY  45 

The  amphitheatre,  divided  by  silver  sun 
shine  and  sepulchral  shade,  is  encircled  by 
seats  in  boxes,  balconies  and  tiers,  priced 
according  to  location ;  those  in  the  sun  are 
inexpensive  and  occupied  by  the  poorer 
classes. 

The  arena  is  similar  to  a  circus  ring  in 
the  United  States,  though  much  larger,  en 
closed  by  a  barrier  about  six  feet  high,  sep 
arated  by  a  narrow  passage  from  another 
barrier,  still  higher.  The  first  barrier  is 
leaped  by  the  performers,  sometimes  by  the 
maddened  bulls. 

Four  roads,  nearly  equi-distant,  lead  to 
the  ring:  one  for  the  toreros,  one  for  the 
bulls,  one  for  the  horses  and  one  for  the 
heralds  of  the  show.  Above  the  bulls'  en 
trance  is  a  balcony,  where  sit  or  stand  the 
members  of  the  municipality,  who  give  the 
signals,  blow  the  trumpets  and  superintend 
the  ceremony.  Each  entrance  of  the  per 
formers  is  announced. 

A  signal  from  the  band  first  warns  the 
assembled  spectators  that  the  exhibition  is 
about  to  begin.  The  audience  is  stilled; 
the  sound  of  voices  is  no  longer  heard ;  every 
eye  is  dilated  and  this  is  what  they  see. 


46  A    MEXICAN     HOLIDAY 

Six  horsemen  mounted  upon  steeds,  show 
ily  caparisoned;  on  their  heads  are  plumed 
sombreros;  at  their  sides  are  swinging 
swords;  each  wears  a  short,  black  mantle; 
their  feet  and  lower  limbs  are  encased  in 
yellow  leather,  spurred  at  the  heel.  Slowly 
they  make  the  circuit  of  the  arena;  when 
they  take  their  positions,  each  face  is  turned 
toward  the  President's  box;  two  by  two 
they  halt  before  the  door  of  the  /or/7,  still 
closed. 

The  band  booms  on ;  another  door  opens, 
another  trumpet;  it  is  the  signal  for  the 
cuadrilla  (company  of  bull  fighters).  First 
come  the  two  primas  espadas  (star  bull 
fighters)  dressed  with  imposing  effect. 
Elaborate  embroideries  completely  cover 
their  closely  fitting  jackets,  short  at  the 
back,  cut  away  in  front,  fringed,  tasseled, 
filagreed  at  the  shoulder;  spangles  seam 
their  scarlet  knee  breeches;  yellow  silk 
sashes,  fringed  at  the  ends,  girdle  their  loins ; 
flesh-colored  silk  stockings  and  satin  slippers 
envelop  their  shapely  extremities;  capes  of 
vermilion  velvet,  richly  corded  and  tasseled, 
a  queue  of  netted  hair,  pomponed  turban, 
bound  with  black  fur  —  the  toreros'  Tam 


A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY  47 

O'Shanter  —  completes    this    striking    cos 
tume. 

After  the  espadas  come  the  banderilleros 
and  capadores,  similarly,  but  less  richly  ar 
rayed;  then  the  picadores  on  horseback, 
carrying  long  lances,  wearing  buffalo-skin 
trousers,  quilted  with  strips  of  iron  for 
protection  against  the  toro's  thrusts.  The 
chulos  bring  up  the  rear.  All  are  finely 
formed  men — compact,  sinewy,  lithe,  with 
dark  faces  and  large,  lustrous  eyes;  they 
too,  assemble  before  the  President's  box, 
saluting  him  with  the  grace  of  a  Chester 
field.  The  key  of  the  toril  is  then  dropped 
into  the  ring.  A  guard  picks  it  up  and 
stations  himself  in  readiness  to  open  the 
door;  the  espadas  separate,  the  chulos 
prepare  their  cloaks,  vivid  as  the  first  rays 
of  the  morning;  the  banderilleros  secrete 
themselves  behind  the  barriers;  the  pica 
dores  adjust  their  lances;  again  the  signal; 
the  door  of  the  toril  is  flung  open. 

A  tumultuous  shout  issues  from  thous 
ands  of  throats,  as  a  black  monster,  with  red, 
blazing  eyes,  cruel,  crescent  horns,  thick, 
ropy  neck,  pricked  and  bleeding  from  a 
spiked  ribbon  rosette,  shoots  into  the  arena. 


48  A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY 

Doomed  though  he  be,  to  butchery,  pro 
longed  and  ceremonious — no  prima  donna, 
with  the  voice  of  a  nightingale  and  a  repu 
tation  international, — ever  was  the  recipient 
of  wilder  applause.  A  chulo  waves  a  pro 
voking  cloak;  the  bull  makes  a  dash  at  it; 
in  a  twinkling  the  agile  chulo  is  behind  a 
barrier. 

The  particular  business  of  these  acrobats 
is  to  irritate  the  bull,  waving  the 
bright  flags  in  his  face.  Bewildered,  he 
sweeps  upon  a  picador,  and  raising  him, 
horse  and  all,  flings  him  down  into  the  dust. 
"Bravo,  toro!"  shout  the  spectators. 
"Pobre  caballo!"  murmured  a  velvet-eyed 
senorita  near  me,  behind  her  fan. 

The  Mexicans  are  a  strange  mixture  of 
sympathy  and  cruelty.  The  pic  adores  are 
the  first  to  receive  the  attack  of  the  bull; 
with  their  long  lances  planted  firmly  be 
tween  his  horns,  they  attempt  to  ward  him 
off ;  if  they  do  not  succeed  in  planting  them, 
the  bull  thrusts  his  horns  through  the  horse 
and  the  picador  falls  with  his  vanquished 
steed. 

While  the  bull  is  extricating  his  horns, 
the  cap  adores  come  forward  and  wave  their 


A     MEXICAW     HOLIDAY  49 

capas  across  his  eyes,  to  attract  his  attention, 
causing  him  to  follow  them  and  to  save  the 
fallen  cavalier,  whom  the  chulos  assist  into 
his  saddle.  If  the  horse  has  the  strength  to 
stand,  he  is  again  attacked  and  disem 
boweled;  otherwise  he  remains  reeking  in 
his  bath  of  gore,  until  kindly  death  comes  to 
his  deliverance, 

Of  all  the  participants  in  this  barbaric 
tournament,  none  merit  so  large  a  share  of 
sympathy  as  do  those  spavined,  knock-kneed, 
old,  blindfolded,  utterly  defenseless  nags, 
fated  to  the  most  frightful  death,  without 
even  the  ghost  of  a  chance  of  resistance. 

Man,  of  all  animals,  is  the  only  one  that 
preys  upon  the  defenseless. 

They  continue  to  tease  him — these  hu 
man  monsters —  with  their  fiery  mantles, 
their  seductive  costumes,  their  exquisite 
agility,  their  tantalizing  tricks ;  reeking  with 
rage,  he  seeks  to  bury  his  horns  in  their 
flesh  but  his  nimble  tormentors  are  more 
than  a  match  for  him.  Not  until  the  signal 
sounds  for  their  retirement,  do  they  cease 
their  ferocious  sport. 

Then  the  banderilleros  appear  upon  the 
scene.  It  is  the  office  of  those  gentry  to 


50  A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY 

plant  barbs  in  the  neck  of  the  bull ;  these 
barbs  are  about  a  yard  in  length,  orna 
mented  with  parti-colored  paper,  furnished 
with  a  metallic  point  and  so  made  as  to 
render  withdrawal  impossible  when  once 
stuck  into  the  flesh.  The  pierced  animal, 
struggling  to  free  himself,  only  drives  them 
further  in.  This  is  most  exquisite  torture 
and  yet  six,  eight,  sometimes  ten  pairs  are 
planted,  causing  the  blood  to  cover  the  vic 
tim  like  a  purple  shroud. 

The  ambition  of  the  banderilleros  is  to 
place  these  prongs  evenly  and  symmetri 
cally,  one  on  each  side  of  the  vertebrae. 
For  this  feat,  great  agility,  firm  hands  and 
perfect  accuracy  of  eyesight  are  required; 
if  they  fail,  they  will  be  pierced  like  the 
poor  horses. 

The  code  of  Romero  decrees  that  the  per 
formers  must  stand,  not  more  than  fifteen 
paces  in  front  of  the  bull,  without  flag, 
lance  or  sword  and  await  the  attack;  in 
furiated  he  rushes  at  them.  As  the  head  is 
lowered,  the  banderillero  makes  his  thrust 
and  then  steps  neatly  aside.  Now  frenzied 
with  resentment,  the  bull  turns  upon  his 
tormentors,  only  to  receive  another  prong  in 


A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY  51 

his  palpitating  flesh. 

How  horrible  he  is  now,  with  his  foam 
ing  nostrils,  blazing  eyes,  writhing  tail  and 
reeking  back,  while  above — "picture  it, 
think  of  it" — is  the  tender  blue  sky  and  a 
few  fleecy  clouds.  Here  was  heinous  work 
in  the  face  of  heaven. 

Again  the  signal!  The  spectators  have 
been  sufficiently  entertained  by  the  ban- 
derilleros;  this  only  is  the  excuse  for  their 
forbearance.  It  is  then  that  the  hero  of 
the  hour,  the  pnma  espada,  appears  upon 
the  scene  for  the  final  feat. 

With  the  dignity  of  a  despot,  the  apparel 
of  an  Asiatic  prince,  a  two-edged  toledo 
blade  and  a  flaming  muleta,  he  advances  to 
the  center  of  the  ring,  removes  his  turban, 
bowrs  first  to  the  President,  then  to  the 
populace,  raises  his  sword,  kisses  it  and  in 
a  clear,  distinct  voice,  asks  permission  to 
kill  the  bull. 

"You  may  fight  him,"  answers  the  Presi 
dent.  He  greets  the  honored  privilege  with 
a  gracious  smile,  a  gentle  inclination  of  the 
head.  "One  of  us  must  die" — he  says,  with 
heroic  humility  which  becomes  him  well. 
Then  he  crosses  himself  and  invokes  the  pro- 


A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY 


tection  of  his  patron  saint ;  he  has  need,  for 
here  is  an  animal  of  enormous  strength, 
ferocious,  bleeding,  maddened  by  prolonged 
torture,  bellowing  for  revenge  and  a  man 
seductively  dressed,  alone,  defenceless,  save 
for  the  sword  in  his  hand.  He  has  need 
too,  of  skill,  courage,  pride,  perhaps  the 
prayers  that  are  being  breathed  for  him, 
for  his  querida  (sweetheart),  one  at  least, 
is  there  in  the  balcony  above,  with  her 
glittering  eyes  upon  him.  The  strained 
glances  of  thousands  are  concentrated.  Not 
a  voice,  not  a  whisper  is  heard. 

The  audacious  espada  provokes  attack 
by  waving  his  muleta  before  the  bull,  across 
his  very  eyes,  who  dashes  at  it,  fcits  the 
cloth  and  strikes — empty  space;  he  has 
stepped  aside  in  the  nick  of  time,  the  horns 
barely  grazing  his  hip.  "Bueno,  bueno"  yells 
the  sunny  side.  The  shady  side  contents 
itself  with  hand-clapping.  The  querida  in 
the  balcony,  snatches  the  bouquet  she  wears 
in  her  corsage  and  throws  it  at  him ;  more 
bouquets  follow,  more  hand-clapping;  bets 
are  made  and  money  staked. 

The  torero  has  done  what  man  can  do  in 
that  radiant  land  to  commend  himself  to  the 


A    MEXICAN    HOX.IDA3T  53 

favors  of  the  fair,  for  these  fellows  enslave 
hearts  as  well  as  slay  bulls.  Seven  times  by 
the  dexterous  use  of  his  flag,  the  espada  in 
vites  attack  from  the  goaded  beast  and  seven 
times,  by  a  dainty  movement,  he  averts 
death. 

Suddenly  he  ceases  this  seeming  by-play 
and  takes  aim,  straight  into  the  great  eyes 
of  the  wondering  animal,  stung  to  the  ex 
tremity  of  desperation  by  these  varied  types 
of  torture;  his  nostrils  emit  a  vaporous  mist, 
his  swollen  tongue  protrudes,  about  his 
hoisted  horns  and  wrinkled  neck  there  is 
blood  —  blood  in  blotches,  rivulets,  wreaths. 
Every  throat  is  elongated.  Opera  glasses  are 
adjusted,  fans  have  ceased  to  flutter.  The 
vast  audience,  tumultuous  in  less  perilous 
feats,  is  now  petrified.  Again  the  beast 
dashes  at  the  man,  but  this  time  he  does  not 
step  by — he  lifts  his  sword;  it  is  the  coup 
de  grace — and  it  falls  in  a  flash  of  silver, 
over  the  horns — lowered  for  the  last  time — 
down,  down  through  the  quivering  flesh, 
and  bloody  vertebrae,  to  the  vital  spot.  At 
the  feet  of  the  conqueror  he  falls — dead. 

It  is  the  supreme  expression  of  physical 
skill.  Then  there  was  a  shower  of  canes, 


64  A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY 

hats,  cigars,  flowers,  kisses,  coin;  men 
shouted,  stamped,  applauded,  wild  with  de 
light;  women  waved  their  handkerchiefs, 
mantillas.  A  hurricane  of  hurrahs  greeted 
the  victorious  gladiator,  who  bows  and 
smiles  and  poses  and  rests  upon  the  hilt  of 
his  sword,  which  he  has  drawn  from  the 
wound  and  wiped  with  his  muleta,  torn 
and  smeared  by  the  combat. 

His  adversary  has  fought  valiantly,  but — 
to  the  victor  belongs  the  spoils.  "Que-so- 
lo-de?i"  shout  the  populace  (give  him  the 
bull.)  He  bows  again  blandly,  with  the 
grateful  grace  of  a  Talma;  then 
he  stoops  and  cuts  the  right  ear 
of  the  dead  animal,  that  it  may 
be  designated  from  others  in  the 
slaughter  house  hard  by  and  amid  vocifer 
ous,  delirious,  infectious  applause  he  retires 
from  the  arena. 

The  band,  which  has  been  dispensing 
rapturous  strains,  suddenly  changes  to  a 
dirge  for  the  dead  toro,  now  being  drawn 
out  by  four  mules,  showily  decorated  with 
tinkling  bells,  feathers  and  little  flags. 

The  most  important  actor  in  this  bar 
barous  tragedy  is  then  skinned,  cut,  sliced 


A     MEXICAN     HOLIDAY  65 

and  sold,  the  proceeds  of  which,  in  this  case, 
went  to  swell  the  receipts  of  the  triumphant 
matador. 

When  six  or  eight  animals  are  similarly 
slaughtered;  when  the  arena  is  scattered 
with  smoking  intestines,  bones,  bits  of  flesh, 
blotches  of  blood  and  other  remnants  of  the 
vanquished;  when  bats  and  kindred  night- 
birds  that  lodge  in  crannies  among  the 
loftier  altitudes  of  the  amphitheater,  have 
scorched  their  wings  by  the  flaring  lights 
substituted  for  the  sun — after  his  daily 
voyage  across  the  beautiful  valley  is  ended ; 
and  the  still,  white  stars  look  down — the 
show  is  over. 

Fro?n  the  "Californian"  May, 


CHIEF    SKOWL'S 


CHIEF  SKOWL'S  REVENGE. 


A  land  of  myths  and  mists  and  mystery; 
ice-blocked,  rock-locked,  storm-rocked:  land 
of  the  alluring  moraine  and  treacherous 
tundra!  The  pitiless  trail  and  hungry 
wolf-pack;  of  frosts,  famine  and  fever;  of 
vanishing  moose,  bear  and  cariboo;  of  gla 
ciers  ghostly,  cloud-lent,  tide-rent,  sun- 
blent!  Land  of  the  El  Dorado,  the  bo 
nanza,  the  blood-red  aurora  borealis;  the 
rainbow's  end,  beyond  the  circle  of  silence! 
Alaska! 

Strange,  surpassing  human  ken,  would  it 
be,  had  such  land  not  begotten  strong  wom 
en  and  men. 

In  the  winter  of  1882,  there  died  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  men  Alaska  has  ever 
produced.  This  was  Skowl,  chief  of  the 
Eagle  clan  of  the  Kaigani,  or  Haida  In 
dians,  who  at  Kasa-an  on  the  east  side  of 
Prince  of  Wales  Island,  long  held  lordly 
and  autocratic  sway. 


68  CHIEF    SEOWL'S   REVENGE 

Skowl  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  old 
school  chieftains,  ruling  his  people  with 
the  proverbial  rod  of  iron,  holding  them  to 
their  faith  and  preserving  amongst  them, 
the  traditions  and  customs  of  their  fore 
fathers;  he  was  always  an  enemy  of  the 
missionaries,  resisting  their  encroachments 
to  the  end.  In  his  later  years  Skowl  was 
distinguished  for  his  wealth,  obesity  and  in 
temperance,  as  well  as  for  his  firmness  of 
character  and  ungovernable  temper  when 
aroused.  For  many  years  his  weight  was 
considerably  more  than  three  hundred 
pounds. 

As  a  young  man  his  mental  superiority, 
physical  powers,  great  wealth  and  family 
influence  gave  him  much  prominence 
among  his  people,  these  qualities  and  acqui 
sitions  being  held  in  equally  as  high  esteem 
in  aboriginal  tribes  as  they  are  in  civilized 
circles. 

At  the  date  of  Skowl's  death,  his  village 
held  seventeen  great  lodges  and  the  three 
score,  or  more  tall  and  weirdly-carved  to 
tem  poles  that  stood  before  them,  grew- 
somely  testified  to  the  high  rank  of  their 
builders.  These  totems  constituted  the 


CHIEF    SICOWL'S   REVENGE  69 

finest  collection  of  the  kind  in  Alaska.  The 
village  is  now  nearly  deserted,  the  people 
having  scattered  to  the  canneries  or  joined 
other  settlements.  The  totem  poles  remain, 
though  decaying,  moss-grown  and  mutilated 
by  alien  miscreants,  in  mute  memorial  of 
the  traditions  of  a  vanishing  race.  These 
emblems  are  expressive  of  more  than  crests 
and  arms  of  continental  noblemen,  as  they 
bear,  not  only  the  insignia  of  rank,  but  the 
history,  in  carven  stone  and  wood,  of  the 
Indians  who  own  them. 

During  the  troublesome  times  of  the  early 
American  occupation,  Kasa-an  bay  was  the 
theatre  of  incidents  memorable  and  exciting. 
One  of  these  formed  the  subject  of  a  narra 
tive,  related  to  a  number  of  willing  listen 
ers, — myself  among  them — in  the  cabin  of 
a  coast  steamer,  that  regularly  furrows 
those  fascinating  fjords,  channels,  inlets, 
straits  — in  that  far-reaching  continent  of 
the  midnight  sun. 

The  narrative  runneth  thus : 

In  the  summer  of  1866  there  came,  one 
day,  an  unfamiliar  but  friendly  boat  to  the 
beach  of  Kasa-an  and  was  straightway 
landed  among  the  splendid  array  of  canoes 


60  CTTTT.T    BZOTTL'S    BEVEJTGZ 

that  gave  Skowl  the  finest  fleet  of  well- 
manned  craft  then  traversing  the  inland 
Aslaskan  waters.  Many  times  in  triumph 
had  they  returned  through  the  giant  granite 
gateway  that  arches  the  entrance  of  this 
harbor  of  the  hostile  chief,  after  dispensing 
war  and  wailing  to  pirates,  robbers  and 
marauding  bands  that  trespassed  upon  the 
green-watered  dominions  of  this  king  of 
the  Kaiganeet. 

In  the  boat  was  an  easy-mannered,  per 
suasive,  pliant  young  Russian,  Baronovich 
by  name,  who  bore  gifts  to  Skowl,  of 
strange  device  and  unknown  value,  from  the 
distant  dominions  of  the  great  White  Czar, 
whose  faithful  subject  he  claimed  to  be. 
Being  active,  teachable,  insinuating  and  of 
the  stuff  that  diplomats  are  made,  Barono 
vich  soon  Ingratiated  himself  with  the  old 
chief  and  in  time  became  an  inmate  of  his 
dwelling,  a  log  cabin  of  spacious  dimensions, 
guarded,  grim  and  sentinel  shrouded,  by 
1 00  IT",  \T}'*  t  r>  *  frrr.-  s . 

Smooth  talking  and  tactful,  with  such  ar 
gument  as  he  was  master  of,  won,  ere  many 
moons  had  aged,  the  stubborn  warrior  from 
his  accustomed  reserve.  By  his  substantial 


CHIEF    SXOYTL'S   BfcVENaE  61 


assistance  young  Baronovich  succeeded  in 
establishing  :i  flourishing  il-hery  at  the  head 
waters  of  Karta  bay,  a  score  or  more  ma 
rine  leagues  from  Skowl's  headquarters. 
With  this  advance  to  the  dignity  of  pro 
prietorship  and  prosperity,  came  the  aspira 
tion  for  closer  relations  with  the  chief,  rela 
tions  which  would  secure  the  adventurer  un 
limited  power.  This,  he  knew,  could  best 
be  effected  by  the  possession  of  Oolalla,  the 
belle  of  the  region,  the  idolized  and  only 
daughter  of  Skowl. 

What  wonder  that  Oolalla  was  univers 
ally  adnured  and  beloved!  She  was  young, 
dignified  of  demeanor,  lithe  of  limb,  raven- 
tressed,  clear-eyed,  with  the  bluest  of  Alas 
ka's  best  blood  in  her  veins,  the  Kaiganees 
being  the  flower  of  the  native  races. 

There  was  no  lack  of  suitors  among  her 
own  race  and  rank.  Numerous  blankets 
and  beautifully  woven  baskets,  with  rich 
trophies  of  the  land  and  sea  were  laid  at 
her  feet,  for  with  tangible  offerings,  abun 
dant  and  marketable,  are  the  maidens  of 
Alaska  won. 

Baronovich  conformed  to  the  Haidan 
custom;  but  when  he  flung  the  fruits  of  his 


CHIEF    SKOWL'S   BEVENGE 

arrows,  his  spear,  his  nets,  harpoons  and 
other  implements  of  the  chase,  as  tribute  to 
the  winsome  Oolalla,  the  old  chief  shook 
his  head  ominously  and  bade  the  would-be 
wooer  depart  with  his  spoils. 

Alone  with  the  only  object  of  his  affec 
tion,  the  king  of  the  Eagle  clan,  in  his  own 
terse  tongue,  questioned  the  girl. 

"Oolalla,  dost  thou  love  the  pale-face?" 

"He  is  to  me,"  answered  Oolalla, — "as 
the  white  moon  in  the  winter  night;  as  the 
sun  in  the  ice  cave;  as  the  rain  on  the 
leaf!" 

"The  gods  forbid  it,"  groaned  Skowl. 

But  what  the  fleet  deer,  surprised  in  the 
forested  fastnesses  of  the  Fairweather;  the 
sinuous  seals  that  crimsoned  the  turquoise 
fathoms  of  Tolstoi  bay  with  their  life-blood 
and  then  lay  prone  at  the  point  of  the  spear ; 
what  the  combined  traffic  of  the  tides,  the 
shoals,  the  hills  and  the  lordly  Yukon  failed 
to  secure,  was  accomplished  at  length  by 
fire-water  (brandy)  plenteous  in  quantity, 
inflammable  in  quality,  distilled  by  the  Rus 
sian  at  Karta  bay  and  conveyed  to  Skowl's 
retreat  at  Kasa-an  and  there  distributed  in 
overflowing  flagons. 


CHIEF   SKOWL'S   REVENGE  63 


It  followed  that  at  a  certain  date  record 
ed  in  Haidan  council  chambers,  after  the 
midnight  sun  had  sunk  behind  blood-red 
bastions  of  cloud  and  mountain  crest,  be 
yond  the  cedar-plumed  parapets  that  formed 
the  western  wall  of  this  Prince  of  the  Alex 
andrian  archipelago;  while  the  unsuspecting 
chief,  steeped  in  stupifying  draughts,  slept 
on  his  shaggy  skins  and  the  guards  were 
likewise  locked  in  inebriated  lethargy;  a 
light  canoe,  lanterned  only  by  an  ivory- 
horned  moon,  was  loosed  from  its  moorings 
by  Baronovich,  who,  with  Oolalla,  swiftly 
skimmed  the  silvery  surfaces  with  muffled 
oars. 

On  the  opposite  shore  they  were  joined  by 
a  Russian  priest.  At  dawn,  when  these 
twain  were  made  one,  by  the  irrevocable 
ritual  of  the  Greek  Church,  the  greedy  soul 
of  the  surreptitious  groom  was  satisfied. 
He  had  triumphed  at  the  expense  of  Skowl. 

For  a  time  all  went  visibly  well.  The 
old  chief  seemed  to  accept  the  situation 
stolidly,  as  became  one  whose  plight  is  ir 
remediable,  though  his  heart  hungered,  his 
blood  bubbled  for  the  revenge  so  sweet  to 
the  savage. 


64  CHIEF   SKOWL'S  REVENGE 

Baronovich  was  on  the  way  to  becoming 
a  rich  man,  albeit  his  sinister  nature  and 
avaricious  policy  prevented  the  respect  and 
confidence  of  his  bride's  people,  who  con 
tinued,  notwithstanding  the  changed  rela 
tions,  to  work  with  him.  He  wished  to 
gain  money  rapidly  and  was  ready  to  em 
ploy  any  means  compatible  with  that  pur 
pose. 

It  was  Baronovich,  who,  in  1868,  with  a 
small  schooner,  the  propety  of  Skowl  and 
manned  with  seal  hunters  supplied  from  the 
chief's  village,  made  a  mysterious  voyage 
to  the  westward  and  returned  with  9000 
seal  skins,  thus  beginning  that  shameful 
pelagic  seal  killing,  or  raiding  the  rookeries, 
that  has  diminished  their  number  and  caused 
so  much  controversy  between  England  and 
the  United  States. 

Baronovich  was  a  man- of  energy  and  re 
sources — well  qualified  for  the  achievement 
of  what  the  world  calls  success. 

After  the  establishment  of  his  fishery  it 
became  the  headquarters  for  smuggling  op 
erations,  so  rife  during  the  first  years  of 
American  ownership  of  Alaskan  territory. 
The  harbor  was  visited  by  revenue  cutters, 


CHIEF    SKOWL'S   REVENGE  65 

when  warnings  were  given,  but  as  nothing 
unlawful  could  be  proven,  the  place  escaped 
official  interference. 

Troubles,  however,  had  begun,  which 
multiplied  as  time  wore  on.  Skowl's  an 
tagonism,  smothered  though  it  had  been, 
was  intensified  rather  than  appeased  by  the 
passage  of  time  and  events.  It  was  Skowl 
who  had  staked  and  outfitted  Baronovich, 
thereby  placing  him  in  a  position  to  make 
money,  but  Skowl  received  no  portion  of 
the  profits,  as  per  agreement,  no  returns 
from  his  hazardous  investments.  Angry 
words,  threats  and  quarrels  became  of  daily 
occurrence,  which  resulted  in  the  complete 
withdrawal  of  Baronovich's  forces,  who,  un 
der  Skowl's  command  would  no  longer 
work  for  the  self-alienated  son-in-law. 
The  attempt  to  bring  Indians  from  other 
villages  to  supply  their  place  made  matters 
worse  and  led  to  sanguinary  encounters. 

At  last  Baronovich  was  in  despair,  his 
sources  of  revenue  being  completely  cut  off 
his  father-in-law  continuing  implacable. 

Skowl  was  not  less  clever  than  Baron 
ovich.  Seeing  the  success  achieved  by  the 
sealing  voyage,  he  proceeded  to  outfit  a 


66  CHIEF    SXOV7I/S 


schooner  on  his  own  account,  imported  a 
captain  from  Victoria  to  navigate  her,  put 
the  same  crew  aboard,  that  had  served  the 
Russian  and  was  rewarded  with  equally 
as  great  a  success.  The  schooner  came  back 
loaded  to  the  scuppers  with  salted  seal  skins. 

Then  came  a  period  of  revelry  and  re 
joicing  at  Kasa-an.  Great  brewings  of 
hoochinoo,  that  deadly  native  spirit  dis 
tilled  in  old  coal  oil  cans,  from  yeast  and 
molasses,  mixed  with  flour,  which  carries 
more  frenzy  in  each  drop  than  any  other 
liquid  under  the  sun,  were  freely  imbibed 
by  the  boisterous  Bacchanalians,  who  knew 
no  phase  of  holiday  save  in  laxity  and  li 
cense. 

Meanwhile  Baronovich,  at  Karta  bayv 
heard  the  news  of  the  safe  return  from 
Behring  Sea  with  the  rich  cargo  of  skins; 
likewise  the  wild  celebration,  prolonged 
without  hint  of  cessation. 

Dark  and  revengeful  thoughts  entered 
his  brain,  accentuated  by  fallen  fortunes, 
the  paralysis  of  power,  the  triumph  of  his 
enemies.  The  green-eyed  monster,  jealousy, 
glared  in  those  silent  chambers  where  pride 
had  sat  enthroned.  Designs  deep  and  in- 


CSXEF    SKOWLS   REVENGE  67 

tricate,  brooded,  bat-like,  beckoning  him 
on  to  further  ventures.  Plots,  woven  with 
disastrous  chances,  yet  pregnant  with  cov 
eted  possibilities  bewildered,  but  in  the  end 
bore  the  ashen  fruits  of  action. 

This  was  his  plot.  He  knew  the  log  hut 
where  the  skins  would  be  placed ;  he  knew, 
also,  that  in  the  heat  of  the  carouse  they 
would  not  be  guarded  closely.  Calling  to 
gether  the  few  renegade  Indians  remaining 
with  him,  he  ordered  the  launching  of  a 
large  canoe  and  with  them  propelled  unob 
served,  to  a  point  not  far  distant  from 
Kasa-an,  there  waiting,  hidden  until  the 
night  for  the  plan's  fulfillment. 

The  rainy  season  which  causes  darkness 
and  thick  fog,  greatly  facilitated  their  pro 
ject. 

A  little  after  midnight,  the  canoe,  stealth 
ily  paddled,  reached  the  beach  nearest  the 
storehouse;  it  was,  as  they  anticipated, 
without  locks,  bars,  or  guards.  With  cat 
like  activity,  the  work  of  carrying  the  skins 
began  and  soon  the  canoe  was  piled  with 
the  costly  peltry.  Several  trips  were  found 
necessary  for  the  conveyance  of  the  store. 
While  making  the  last  one  they  were  dis- 


68  CHIEF    SKOWL'S   REVENGE 

covered  by  a  stroller  on  the  beach,  whose 
instant  outcry  peopled  the  strand  with  ex 
cited  Indians,  all  shouting  and  waving  their 
weapons,  but  too  much  surprised  and  be 
fuddled  with  base  decoction  to  act  effec 
tively. 

Baronovich  succeeded  in  launching  his 
canoe,  but  the  load  was  heavy  and  the  row 
ers  few  and  so  they  drifted  helplessly  in 
the  rain-robed  night.  The  first  struggling 
gleams  of  the  morning  revealed  the  fact  that 
they  were  followed.  In  the  prow  of  a  craft 
powerfully  manned,  stood  the  gigantic  fig 
ure  of  Skowl,  drunken  and  distorted  with 
rage,  but  fluent  with  imprecations  upon  his- 
crafty  son-in-law,  who  struggled  frantically 
in  his  efforts  to  escape,  but  it  was  a  task 
futilely  attempted.  Skowl,  when  close  upon 
him,  raised  his  arm,  brandished  his  spear 
and  cast  it  with  all  his  strength  at  Baron 
ovich;  it  struck,  pinning  him  to  the  boat's 
bottom. 

Skowl  gave  a  yell  of  exultation,  crying 
out  that  he  never  needed  to  strike  an  enemy 
twice. 

Indifferent  to  the  fugitive's  immediate 
fate,  as  he  thought  him  dead,  he  ordered 


CHIEF    SKOWL  S    REVENGE  69 

the  overhauling  of  the  spoils  and  their  re 
turn  to  the  storehouse  whence  they  were 
taken. 

Fortunately  for  Baronovich,  the  arm  of 
Skowl,  unsteady  from  drink,  lodged  the 
spear  in  his  shoulder  instead  of  a  more  vital 
part,  as  had  been  intended ;  though  writhing 
ir.  agony,  he  gave  orders  to  those  who  com 
passionately  attended  him,  to  steer  their  de 
pleted  craft  back  to  Karta  bay. 

At  the  fishery  Oolalla  received  her  hus 
band  with  mingled  grief,  alarm  and  fore 
boding;  she  knew  her  father's  vindictive 
nature  too  well  to  imagine  he  would  not 
follow  up  the  work  of  the  morning;  her 
first  thought  was  flight  to  some  other  vil 
lage,  but  Baronovich,  though  still  alive, 
was  weak  and  helpless  from  loss  of  blood 
and  begged  not  to  be  disturbed.  Fearful 
of  the  vengeance  of  Skowl,  his  men  had  all 
deserted  him  and  so  flight  was  impos 
sible. 

Oolalla,  alone  with  her  mangled  husband 
and  tender  infant,  had  immediate  need  of 
the  courage  bequeathed  by  her  Spartan  an 
tecedents,  for  her  plight  was  pitiable;  her 
isolation,  however,  was  soon  interrupted  by 


70  CHIEF    SKOWI/S    BKVENQJG 

a  fleet  of  canoes,  steering  straight  for  the 
fishery  landing,  crowded  with  whooping 
warriors,  all  on  vengeance  bent. 

The  canoes  shot  forward  and  were  soon 
shored.  Skowl  headed  the  procession  di 
rected  toward  the  dwelling  of  the  man  dis 
graced.  A  being  of  fearful  mein  he 
was,  with  features  distorted  by  rage  and 
revelry,  the  eagle  plumes  upon  his  dishev 
eled  hair  wind-rent,  his  ponderous  frame 
clad  in  the  habiliments  of  savagery  and  the 
weapons  of  destruction. 

Oolalla,  as  he  approached,  barred  the 
doorway  with  her  presence. 

"The  thief  who  has  robbed  me!  Where 
is  he?"  shouted  Skowl,  seeking  to  shake 
her  aside. 

"Father,  what  would  you  do  with  him  ?" 
shrieked  Oolalla. 

"Kill  him  as  I  would  a  wolf  that  stole 
my  meat,"  spit  the  angry  assailant. 

"Kill  me,  if  you  will,  but  spare  him!" 
pleaded  the  tearful  and  terrified  girl. 

"Come  home  with  me,  Oolalla,"  said  her 
father.  "You  shall  be  to  us  as  you  were 
before  the  fox  came." 

"Without  him — never!"  was  the  answer. 


CEIEF    S3£OT7I,'S   HSV2NGE  71 

The  chief  entered  the  dwelling  and 
would  have  finished  by  another  spear  thrust 
the  object  of  his  wrath,  who  lay  fainting 
in  his  bed,  had  Oolalla  not  snatched  her 
infant  from  the  mat  where  it  lay  and  held 
it  between  its  father  and  her  own. 

Skowl  had  never  seen  his  grand-son, 
though  he  had  been  informed  of  its  ad 
vent  at  Karta  bay  and  now  he  looked  at 
it,  with  a  glance  that  shifted. 

"Kill  it  and  me!"  still  pleaded  Oolalla— 
"but  spare  him!" 

He  could  have  done  so,  with  one  crunch 
of  his  sinewy  clasp,  as  the  little  brown  one 
lay  there  in  it,  limp  and  dimpling,  but  at 
sight  of  the  small  face  that  smiled  so  confi 
dently  in  his,  the  tears  and  entreaties  of  its 
mother,  the  suffering  man  writhing  in  his 
bunk,  the  stony  heart  of  the  warrior  soft 
ened  and  instead  of  carrying  out  his  pur 
pose  of  avenging  the  wrong  perpetrated 
upon  him  and  the  gods  of  his  race,  he  bade 
Oolalla  return  with  her  child,  to  his  home. 

Then,  in  his  arms,  he  lifted  Baronovich 
and  bore  him  to  a  canoe  and  wrapped  him 
in  soft  skins  and  when  all  were  aboard, 
gave  orders  for  the  crow's  route  to  Kasa-an. 


72  CHIEF    SKOWL'S   REVENUE 

There,  Shamans,  or  medicine  men,  the 
most  skilled  of  the  Eagle-totemed  tribe, 
were  strictly  charged  to  minister  to  the 
sick  son-in-law,  at  peril,  if  need,  of  their 
own  lives.  Baronovich,  natively  strong 
and  attended  by  those  twin  magicians — 
love  and  skill — soon  recovered. 

As  long  as  his  benefactor  lived,  they 
thereafter  dwelt  in  harmony  and  the  feasts 
and  dances  of  those  last  days  ef  the  chief  of 
the  Kaiganees,  are  still  famous  along  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Alaska* 

Thus,  with  love  instead  of  hate,  did 
Skowl  wreak  his  revenge. 


r 


A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY 


A  HEROINE  OF  DIPLOMACY. 


An  erstwhile  portly  porter  of  the  "Sun 
set  Route,"  who  held  in  his  sooty  palms — 
if  not  the  destiny  of  transcontinental  trav 
elers — a  goodly  share,  at  least,  of  creature 
comfort,  received  upon  the  occasion  of  a 
hurried  tour,  an  unaccustomed  tip,  as  a 
passenger  entered  the  north-bound  Pullman 
"Pizarro"  at  Houston,  Texas. 

On  that  mid-August  day,  the  traveler,  a 
lady  unattended,  was  mindful  of  the  smit 
ing  sun,  sitting  like  a  ball  of  flame  in  the 
brassy  sky;  the  desert  sands,  fine  as,  sifted 
wheaten  flour,  that  defies  exclusion;  the 
stifling  noons,  the  withering  winds,  the  low- 
hung,  languorous  moons,  that  flood  the  stark 
spaces  of  the  Lone  Star  State. 

By  reason  of  these  debilitating  condi 
tions,  the  delicate  passenger  would  re 
quire  iced  beverages  and  stimulating  bits 
from  the  buffet;  blinds  must  need  be 


73  A    HEROINS    OP    DIPLOMACY 

drawn,  screens  adjusted,  netting  draped, 
pillows  beaten  and  portieres  parted,  that 
the  indolent  breeze,  so  vagrantly  wafted 
across  the  face  of  that  far  expanse,  might 
have  what  sway  it  would. 

The  young  lady's  necessities,  always 
numerous,  were  in  this  instance,  augmented 
by  lack  of  the  entourage,  which  had  pre 
viously  accompanied  her  frequent  scam 
pers  across  continent  and  impossible  of 
anticipation,  save  from  the  Ethiopians  in 
blue  serge  and  brass  buttons,  who  preside 
so  imperiously  over  the  helpless  subjects  in 
their  desultory  domain — "and  so" — said 
the  gentle  passenger,  in  an  indulgent  little 
voice — "he  will  earn  his  fee." 

She  had  read  of  Death  Valley,  the  delu 
sive  mirage,  the  devastating  simoon,  border 
bandits,  venemous  reptiles,  the  wild  famish 
ing  beasts  that  roam  the  arid  mesas  and  the 
question — "Shall  I  escape  those  perils?" 
thrust  itself — unbidden — upon  her. 

Since,  however,  in  the  glamorous  lexicon 
of  youth,  courage  springs  eternal,  no  hint 
of  horror  ruffled  the  speaker's  tuneful 
voice,  as  she  said,  at  the  threshhold  of  the 
"Pizarro"  to  the  black  that  barred  it — 


A    HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  77 

"Porter — may  I  trouble  you  to  place  these 
parcels?"  indicating,  at  the  same  time,  the 
presence  of  a  small  servitor  at  her  heels, 
of  conspicuous  evidence,  who  struggled 
bravely  under  the  weight  of  numerous  ap 
pendages. 

"Here's  luggage,  as  they  say  in  Lunnon. 
A  kit  for  a  minstrel  star.  What  a  tramp 
feeling  it  gives  one  to  go  about  like  this, 
alone!  But  Susanna  wouldn't  budge!  She 
couldn't  be  gotten  out  of  Galveston.  She 
had  a  right,  I  suppose,  to  stay  with  her  old 
mammy  if  she  wished,  but — it's  mighty 
hard  on  me." 

This  in  mental  soliloquy.  "That  is  all 
Skiddy,  goodby!"  to  the  boy. 

"Are  you  the  attendant  for  this  coach?" 
to  the  porter. 

"Yes,  lady." 

"Show  me  to  this  section,  please!"  was 
the  order,  given  in  mild  authority,  as 
the  proper  tickets  were  displayed.  Relieved 
of  bags,  bundles,  band-boxes,  parasols,  a 
camp-stool,  umbrellas,  a  camera,  cane,  fish 
ing-tackle,  an  easel,  a  caged  cockatoo  and  a 
banjo  in  its  case,  all  of  which  were  assigned 
to  the  commodious  compartment,  corre- 


78  A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY 

spending  to  the  numbered  tickets,  the  well- 
outfitted  tourist  sank  into  her  cushions 
with  a  sense  of  security,  remote  indeed, 
from  nightmares  of  bandits,  beasts,  or  other 
banes  of  border  lands. 

"Excoose  me!" 

It  was  the  porter  whose  presence  jarred, 
for  with  an  assumption  inseparable  from 
the  Divine  right  of  sovereigns,  the  world 
over,  he  spoke. 

"I  has  strict  awdahs,  lady,  not  to  let  no 
birds  nor  dogs  in  heah.  I  has  to  take  it  to 
de  baggage  car,  right  now!"  and  his  big, 
black  eyes  rolled  resolutely  in  the  direction 
of  the  bird's  green  plumage. 

"Well!"  came  the  response,— "If  those 
are  official  orders  I  must  submit,  I  suppose, 
but  I'm  sorry,  as  she  is  good  company. 
Don't  put  her  where  it  is  dark,  she'll 
grieve  herself  to  death — poor  thing!  Give 
her  a  lump  of  sugar — will  you,  please?" 

"Pretty  Polly — good-bye — until  to-mor 
row!" — was  the  parting  salutation,  as  the 
porter,  cage  in  hand,  made  his  exit. 

"Good-bye — Nattie!" — came  the  shrill, 
quavering  accents  from  the  talking  bird. 


A  HEROINE   OF  DIPLOMACY  79 

"I've  gave  her  de  sugah,  lady!"  an 
nounced  the  supple  attendant,  upon  his  re 
turn. 

"Thank  you!"  replied  polly's  mistress — 
"I  shall  appreciate  your  care  of  her  during 
this  run,  since  7  am  not  permitted ;  look  in 
on  her  every  little  while,  will  you?  and 
here's  for  your  bother!" — placing,  at  the 
same  time,  a  piece  of  money  in  his  ever 
open  palm — "now  what  shall  I  call  you?" 

"I's  Samson,  lady,  Sam-son  Dow,  at  yoah 
sahvice  and  de  bird's!" — was  the  answer, 
with  the  surrendering  suavity  of  his  race 
and  a  greedy  grip  at  the  coin. 

"Samson!  a  good  name,  from  the  Bible, 
I  suppose  you  know.  Shall  I  call,  if  I  need 
anything  ?" 

"Suah!  lady,  or  touch  dat  bell"— he 
designated  the  wire  connection — "and  I'll 
come  on  de  run."  And  Samson,  with  the 
unerring  intuition  of  the  servile,  the  illiter 
ate,  accepting  the  dismissal,  vanished,  as 
swiftly  and  silently  as  a  good  darkey 
should. 

Soon  the  screech  of  engines,  the  clang 
of  bells,  the  smoke,  soot,  rattle  and  roar 
of  a  moving  train,  reminded  the  traveler 


80  A    HEROINE    OF   DIPLOMACY 

that  her  ride  across  the  valley  of  desolation 
was  under  way. 

Between  Houston  and  San  Antonio, 
there  are  few  stations  touched  by  the 
"Overland" — and  these  are  uninteresting, 
save  to  students  of  the  coarser  types  of 
humanity. 

In  the  hovels,  shacks,  leantoos,  wicki 
ups  and  similar  shifts  for  human  shelter, 
that  wart  the  wide  expanse,  herd  haggard 
gamblers,  gaunt  cowboys,  low-set  greasers, 
beseeching  beggars,  sullen  desperados, 
adventurers  and  outlaws  of  all  nationali 
ties,  each  bent  to  the  same  purpose — 
summed  up  in  one  word — plunder. 

There  was  little  in  it,  to  invite  the  in 
terest  of  refinement  and  so,  our  traveler 
drew  her  blind  to  exclude  the  repellent 
pictures  that  avarice,  ignorance,  selfishness 
and  crime,  had  imprinted  upon  the  bare 
face  of  nature.  Since  the  panoramic  scenes 
were  so  repugnant,  her  gaze  sought  the 
interior  amenities;  meeting  it,  were  hang 
ings,  wrought  in  designs  copied  from  costly 
tapestries;  globes  and  glass,  so  stained  as 
to  soften  the  glow  of  night  lamps  and  the 
too  ardent  rays  of  the  sun. 


A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  81 

Windows  of  grim  embrasure  were  shut 
in  by  thick  casements,  screened,  heavily 
curtained,  rodded,  ringed.  Fans  in  palm 
and  bamboo,  of  mechanism  designed  for 
diffusion  of  the  sluggish  air,  swayed  to 
and  fro.  Arm-chairs,  tables,  foot-rests, 
couches,  cushions,  pillows,  one  and  all, 
combined  to  veil  the  sun-tanned  face  of 
that  long,  lone  land. 

Would  she  read?  Open  books  were 
before  her,  profusely  pictured,  many  of 
them  portraying  in  fluent  English,  the 
marvels  of  the  route  over  which  she  trav 
eled.  Anon,  her  eyes  fell  tenderly  upon  a 
letter  of  recent  date,  crumpled,  almost 
ragged,  from  frequent  perusal. 

It  was  addressed — Miss  Natalie  Breck- 
enridge,  Beach  Hotel,  Galveston,  Texas, 
and  ran  thus: 

"HOME,    San    Francisco,    California,    August 

MY  DEAR  CHILD: — 

Your  telegram  recalled  me  from  the  red 
woods,  where  I  have  been  deer-hunting. 
Splendid  sport,  that,  among  the  forest  kings, 
up  there  between  the  snows  and  the  sea.  Ah ! 
Nattie,  child,  could  you  paint  the  dawns  as  I 
saw  them,  above  the  clouds,  your  old  Daddy 
might  cherish  the  hope  of  going  down  to  pos- 


82  A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY 

terity  with  his  name  written  upon  the  frill 
of  your  frock — but — I  won't  gush.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  needed  money?  Don't  wait 
until  you  are  broke  and  then  interrupt  my 
dog-days.  I  left  the  city  to  escape  such  in 
flictions  as  letters,  dispatches  and  telephone 
calls.  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  down 
there  in  the  Lone  Star  State  so  long? 

Have  you  struck  oil  or  a  cattle  king? 

It's  all  one  I  suppose !  In  either  case,  you'll 
have  no  further  use  for  me.  O!  well!  What 
are  we  old  fellows  for  anyway,  except  to  put 
up  the  coin? 

Telegraphed  you  a  hundred  dollars,  as  re 
quested.  Hope  you'll  use  it  to  come  home 
with.  It's  lonely  there,  since — however,  I'm 
not  complaining.  If  your  dear  mother  had 
lived,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  so  much 
cared  to  go  about  the  world.  Well !  what 
ever  betides,  remember,  Nattie,  that  your 
mother  was  noble  and  your  father's  house,  as 
Icng  as  you  need  it,  is  yours. 

Paternally,  with  love, 
JEROME  BRECKENRIDGE." 

"Dear  old  Daddy — I'm  coming,  com 
ing  as  fast  as  steam  and  wheels  will  bring 
me,  coming  to  stay," — murmured  Nattie, 
with  filial  feeling.  But,  not  by  the  most 
reassuring  of  letters,  plentiful  books,  bright 
hopes  and  a  transcontinental  railroad's  best 
service  is  the  soul  sustained. 

A  sense  of  isolation,  which  the  sumptu- 


A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  83 

ous  surroundings  but  served  to  emphasize, 
became  more  oppressive,  as  the  journey 
progressed ;  for,  by  the  bars  of  gold  that 
emblazoned  the  Western  horizon;  by  the 
billowy  ridges  that  seemed  to  rise,  like  rose- 
hued  islands,  out  of  the  sea  of  scrubby 
mesquite  and  chaparral;  by  the  slim  shad 
ows  cast  by  gaunt  trees,  the  solitary  trav 
eler  knew  that  the  day  was  approaching  its 
close. 

The  conductor  had  made  his  rounds, 
punched  her  ticket,  mopped  his  perspiring 
brow  with  a  rag  of  silk,  made  some  com 
mon-place  remark  about — "Travel  being 
light  this  hot  weather!" — and — passed  on. 
Then,  for  lack  of  anything  better  to  do, 
crawled  into  his  bunk, 

"What  queer  people  we  Americans  are!" 
— he  muttered  in  drowsy  soliloquy — "In 
no  other  country  on  earth  would  a  nice, 
slip  of  girl  be  let  go  about  alone,  sleeping 
on  a  shelf,  eating  at  the  hands  of  a  strange 
servant — but,  she's  no  kin  of  mine,  so 
why  bother?  What's  that  about  the  per 
petuity  and  dignity  of  a  nation  depending 
•upon  the  protection  of  its  virgins?  I've 
heard  or  read  it  somewhere,  but  can't  for 


84  A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY 

the  life  of  me  place  it,"  and — dazed  by 
the  majesty  of  the  sentiment,  or  enervated 
by  the  climate,  or  both,  the  man  dozed  off. 

Samson  had  served  the  girl's  supper  and 
cleared  away  the  scraps. 

There  had  been  no  stops,  no  passengers. 
The  Pullman  was  still  all  her  own.  Seek 
ing  a  window,  she  saw,  by  the  hurrying 
twilight,  the  lean,  long-horned,  ill-favored 
kine,  that  roam  those  unhindered  plains, 
start,  affrighted,  at  the  train's  glowing 
head-light  and  run,  to  the  shelter  of  the 
slanting  knolls,  for  the  sake  of  their  poor 
lives. 

The  cranes  stalked  away,  like  worn 
sentinels  and  then  merged  into  the  envelop 
ing  shades. 

The  golden  bars  melted  into  mauve  and 
turquoise  and  silver  gray. 

The  stars  twinkled  out  their  evening 
salutation  to  the  cactus  blossoms. 

The  wild  hens,  with  strangely  plaintive 
wail,  gathered  home  their  wandering 
broods. 

All  things  of  the  desert  welcomed  the 
restful  dusk. 

''Samson" — said   the  psychic  student  of 


A    HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  85 

these  mystic  forces,  when  they  had,  each, 
merged  into  a  mass,  undistinguishable,  un 
fathomable,  incomplete — 

"Would  you  mind  doing  my  berth 
early?" 

"Suh — no,  lady.  Fs  not  ovah  busy!" — 
he  replied  and  with  alacrity,  proceeded 
to  his  task. 

"Escoose  me!"  he  rejoined — "Yoah 
jes'  bettah  let  me  shet  dat  win 
der;  the  skeeters'll  be  in  heah,  a  perfect 
hive;  I'll  put  de  wiah  screen  in  ef  yoah 
seys  so,  but  lemme  tell  yo,  chile,  it's  not 
ovah  safe;  we'll  be  a  gwoine  thro'  de  bad 
lands,  putty  soon." 

"The  Bad  Lands?— Samson!" 

"Didn't  yoah  nevah  hear  tell  of  de 
Bad  Lands,  chile,  twixt  Sanderson  and 
Del  Rio?  Dat's  de  place  whar  thar's  ben 
so  many  hold-ups.  Wy;  du  yoah  know?" — 
and  Samson's  speech  warmed  with  the 
consciousness  of  superior  knowledge — 
"I've  knowed  'em  to  cut  dem  wirh 
screens  wid  deah  bowie-knives  an'  swipe 
whatevah  dey  could  git;  clos',  jewelry, 
shoes,  any  ole  thing,  ef  dey  couldn't  git 
no  money.  I  suh  yoah,  chile,  yoah  bettah 


86  A    HSUOINE    OF   DIPLOMACY 


let  me  shet  de  winder  an'  put  down  de 
blin'." 

"The  air  is  heavy  here,  with  all  these 
lamps.  Why  not  put  out  the  lights  in 
some  of  them?  I  don't  mind  a  few 
mosquitoes  and  dust  is  preferable  to  the 
stifling  atmosphere.  Surely  no  harm  can 
overtake  us,  while  we  are  running  at  thij> 
speed!  Are  we  likely  to  be  delayed?" 

"No — dey  ain't  no  stops  foah  Del  Rio, 
but  dey's  greasers  and  sich,  gropin'  roun' 
dis  yar  track,  'bout  sun-down  an'  aftah. 
Ef  any  o'  dat  gang  seen  yoah  a  settin'  at 
de  winder,  dey'd  cut  de  screen,  sho'  nufL" 

"Why — Samson!  I  have  nothing  with 
which  to  tempt  a  train-robber." 

"Dey  don'  know  dat,  Honey!  dey'd 
tote  yoah  off,  anyhow,  if  dey  could." 

"What  dreadful  things  you  put  into  my 
head — Samson!  you  make  me  afraid  to 
stay  here  alone.  Now  could  you  not  help 
me  to  exchange  coaches?" 

"Swap  sleepers!"  exclaimed  Samson — 
"Wy,  suah,  ef  yoah  seys  so — but  what 
foah?  Yo's  got  'em  all  to  yoah-seff  any 
how — coaches  and  train;  no  Nabob  dat 
I  helped  haul  ovah  dis  yar  road  evah  was 


A  HEROINE    OF   DIPLOMACY  87 

bettah  bunked.  Deys  many  a  one  'ud  like 
to  step  into  yoah  little  shoes!  Ef  yoah 
was  Missus  President  of  de  United  States, 
yoah  wouldn't  have  no  moah  room  to  yo- 
seff." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  pent  up 
wisdom,  he  proceeded  to  his  tasks.  They 
were  light  and  he  gave  himself  leisure;  at 
least  he  lingered  over  the  single  berth 
longer  than  absolute  necessity  required. 

"Samson!" 

It  was  the  prospective  occupant  of  the 
berth  who  spoke,  at  length,  after  the  prep 
arations  for  the  night  were  completed. 

The  negro  turned  and  faced  the  speak 
er. 

"After  what  you  have  told  me,  I  am 
a  bit  nervous  about  occupying  this  sleeper 
alone  to-night.  Is  there  no  women  aboard, 
in  the  tourist  section,  who  might  be  in 
duced  to  come  here?  I  will  gladly  pay 
the  additional  expense,  if  there  be  any 
incurred,  for  the  sake  of  company." 

"Didn't  I  'done  tole  yoah,  chile,  yoah's 
de  only  guest  on  dis  yar  trip?  Dey  ain't 
nobody  in  de  second  class;  but,  bless  yoah, 
Honey,  don't  be  skeered.  I's  gwoine  to  set 


88  A   HEROINE    OF   DIPLOMACY 

right  bar.  I  don't  'spec  to  shet  a  eye,  till 
dis  yar  train  toddles  into  El  Paso.  Now 
yoah  jes  go  and  rest  yoh-seff.  Nothin' 
ain't  gwoine  to  hurt  yoah,  es  long  es  yoah's 
got  Samson," 

His  size  betokened  strength;  his  move 
ments  were  those  of  an  athlete,  in  training 
for  a  fight.  From  a  physical  point 
of  view,  he  could,  doubtless,  had  he  chosen 
and  opportunity  afforded,  have  slain,  as 
did  his  herculean  predecessor,  of  Biblical 
fame,  all  the  refractory  forces  in  Israel; 
yet,  neither  his  size,  strength,  apparent 
training,  nor  reassuring  words  were  suf- 
ficent  to  dispel  the  apprehensions  he  had 
inspired ;  and  so, — with  the  lowering  of  the 
"Pizarro's"  lights,  the  donning  of  her 
dream  gown,  Miss  Breckenridge  experi 
enced  an  especial  need  of  putting  in  a 
petition  of  unusual  fervor  to  her  patron 
saint,  for  immediate  protection. 

With  the  sweet,  reposeful  frame  of 
mind  which  follows  the  soul's  submission 
to  the  powers  Divine,  she  slept.  A  cur 
rent  of  cooler  air  than  the  desert  day  had 
afforded,  swept,  with  the  speeding  train, 
through  the  open  window  above  the 


A    HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  89 

girl's  berth,  as  Samson,  obedient  to  her 
wish,  had  neither  closed  nor  screened  it. 

The  full  moon  flooded  with  tender  radi- 
ence,  a  form  and  face,  as  fair  as  that  of 
the  celebrated  Cenci  in  her  white  chamber 
on  the  slopes  of  the  palaced  Esquiline. 

It  must  have  been — "the  witching  hour 
of  night  when  churchyards  yawn  and  hell 
itself  breathes  out  contagion" — that  the 
sleeping  maiden  was  suddenly  and  most 
singularly  startled.  Out  of  the  blurring 
shadow,  a  black  face  emerged,  which,  but 
for  the  firey  eyes  in  their  white  globes 
swimming,  would  have  been  undistinguish- 
able.  Teeth  of  ghastly  gleam  were  set 
in  a  frame  of  ebony. 

Arms  uplifted  threateningly,  as  some 
foul-winged  carrion,  whose  food  is  the 
putrid  flesh. 

"Ho!  Help!  Here!  Conductor! 
Samson!" — was  the  suppliant  scream,  that 
pierced  the  slumberous  night. 

Black  fingers  closed  the  pallid  lips  and  a 
muffled  voice,  close  to  the  girl's  bewild 
ered  ears,  muttered — 

"Look  har — little  white  dove.  I's  not 
gwoine  to  hurt  yoah." 


50  A    HEROINE    OP    DIPLOMACY 

"Why,  it's  you,  Samson!"  faltered  the 
dove  when  she  found  her  voice.  "How 
you  frightened  me!  Have  they  come? 
The  robbers  you  told  me  about?  Did 
they  get  in  through  the  window  while  I 
was  asleep?  What  do  they  want?  money — 
I  suppose,  or  valuables!  Here!  give  them 
these;  they're  all  I  have  about  me." 

And  from  her  trembling  fingers,  the  girl 
proceeded  to  spill  into  his  sooty  palms,  her 
few  rings,  then  flung  him  her  small  watch, 
a  pearl  necklace,  wrist  bands,  chatelaine 
and  leather  purse. 

"There!  go,  now!  quickly!"  was  the  quiv 
ering  command.  But  the  brute  did  not 
go;  he  surrendered  the  valuables;  bent, 
still  lower  his  ebon  brows  and  into  the 
dove's  dazed  ears,  hissed  words  of  unre 
peatable  pollution. 

"Holy  Mother — Mary — defend  me!" — 
was  the  plaintive  prayer,  as  the  petitioner 
leaped  into  the  open  window ;  but  the  slime 
of  savage  hands  was  upon  her;  between 
her  and  sudden,  sure  destruction. 

"I's  not  gwoine  to  let  yoah  kill  yoah-seff. 
What  foah  yoah  want  to  kill  yoah-seff? 


A    HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  91 

I  won't  hurt  yoah,  chile!"  came  the  sneak 
ing  apology. 

Men,  from  the  privileged,  idle,  mone5^ed, 
titled  class;  to  the  hireling,  depraved  and 
enslaved  white  or  black,  profess  pro 
tection  for  the  young,  the  innocent,  the 
dependent,  the  weak ;  but  more  merciless 
than  the  bullet,  the  drawn  dirk,  the  pois 
oned  arrow,  on  the  subtle  drug,  is  their 
form  of  chivalry. 

Death  is  at  least  dignified.  It  is  the 
royal  disposition  of  certain  four-footed 
beasts,  "to  prey  on  nothing  that  doth 
seem  as  dead ;" — yet  man,  who  is  said  to 
be  the  flower  of  civilization,  still  employs 
his  best  brain  and  brawn  in  the  most 
ignoble  type  of  destruction. 

The  black  has  learned  well  the  lesson 
of  debasement  from  his  white  brother. 

"You  will  not  harm  me!"  gasped  the 
girl,  repeating  at  length,  as  in  a  nightmare, 
his  well  worn  words;  for  the  fright,  heat 
and  horror  of  the  situation,  had  all  but 
thrown  her  into  a  swoon. 

"Turn  on  the  light,  then,  and  see  if  you 
can  find  me  a  glass  of  water.  How  very 
dark  you  have  made  it  here!" 


92  A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY 

Faithful  to  his  training,  Samson  sprang 
to  her  bidding,  during  which  interval  the 
young  girl  pressed  the  electric  button  at 
hand,  with  the  hope  of  summoning  the 
conductor,  who  should,  by  every  code  of 
transit,  have  been  hers  to  command,  in 
case  of  emergency;  but  no  response  to  the 
ring  came  from  out  those  sullen  silences. 

Locked  in  a  limbo  unapproachable,  that 
official  reposed,  for  he  could  not  have  escap 
ed  the  train.  To  personally  summon  him, 
explain,  implore  his  protection,  was  the 
only  remaining  alternative  for  this  fettered 
dove.  A  leap  from  the  berth,  a  stride 
toward  the  clattering  platform  gave 
prompt  expression  to  this  resolve;  when 
lo!  the  sinister  presence!  it  shadowed, 
barred  the  passage  completely. 

"I  can't  let  yoah  go  out  dar  in  de  dust 
and  dark;  yoah  might  hurt  yo-self;  dem 
little  feet  was  nevah  made  for  de  stones; 
stay  har,  Honey  and  go  sleep.  Yoah  don 
need  be  skeered.  Wy!  for  all  de  gold  in 
dis  world,  Samson  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair 
o'  yoah  head." 

By  such  empty  phrase,  did  the  wretch 
seek  beguilement.  With  all  the  angels 


A    HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  93 

and  ministers  of  grace,  reputed  to  be  hover 
ing  ever  above  the  innocent  of  this  sin- 
infested  sphere,  was  there  no  release? 

He,  who  had  warned  of  bandits  and 
tricks  of  criminals,  was  himself  the  culprit. 
The  maid  had  need  of  courage,  a  firm  hand 
and  whatever  of  strategy  she  could  com 
mand,  for  what  was  her  slender  strength, 
to  his  Samsonian  sinews? 

What  to  him  appeal  for  protection  ? 

To  a  lecherous  black  blinded  by  pas 
sion,  these  delicate  weapons  of  combat,  are 
as  tender  rose  leaves,  in  the  teeth  of  a 
tearing  tornado.  Not,  then,  in  shriek,  or 
wail,  or  struggle,  denunciation,  threat, 
prayer,  or  promise  of  things  to  come,  but 
in  the  wily  walks  of  diplomacy,  did  her 
deliverance  lie. 

Knowing,  from  having  passed  her  more 
youthful  years  in  the  South,  the  nature  of 
the  negro,  a  sudden  thought,  which  may  be 
defined  as  inspiration,  illumined  this  dark 
scene. 

"  My  banjo  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl  — 
"Where  did  you  put  it?  Bring  it.  You 
did  not  intend  to  frighten  me,  did  you? 
I  called  you,  didn't  I,  to  get  the  banjo, 


94  A   HEROINE    OF   DIPLOMACY 

of  course;  and  you  came,  as  my  old  mam 
my  —  Hannah  —  used  come,  tiptoeing  in, 
mornings,  before  I  was  awake,  lest  she 
disturb  me,  to  bring  hot  water  and  brush 
my  clothes.  You  have  found  the  banjo? 
Sure!  Thank  you.  Now,  we  shall  have 
some  music;  a  concert,  all  by  ourselves. 
I  am  going  to  play  for  you,  and  sing.  / 
shall  sleep  no  more  to-night.  This  night 
is  your  night,  Samson!" 

By  such  hysterical  speech  was  the  savage 
kept  in  abeyance. 

They  were   nervous,    tense   fingers   that 

swept   the  banjo  strings  and   a  trembling 

voice    that    trilled    an    old    negro    melody. 

"Nickodemus — the     slave, — was     of     African 

birth ; 

And  was  bought  for  a  bag  full  of  gold. 
He  was  woolly  of  pate  and  plethoric  of  girth, 

But  he  died  years  ago,  very  old. 
'Twas  his  last,  sad  request, 

As  they  laid  him  away — 
In  the  trunk  of  an  old,  hollow  tree; 

Wake  me  up  was  his  charge, 
At  the  first  break  of  day, 

Wake  me  up  for  the  great  jubilee." 

At  the  sound  of  the  swelling  strain, 
Samson's  face  glowed  with  elation,  so 
sensitive  is  the  Senegambian  to  the  mys 
tery  and  magic  of  music. 


A   HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY  95 

From  plaintive,  plantation  songs  that  ap 
pear  vulgar  to  ears  aesthetic,  the  singer 
varied  her  repertoire  to  nursery  rhymes, 
lullabys,  concert  hall  trills,  minstrel  echoes, 
patriotic  odes,  arias  from  the  comic  and 
grand  opera,  the  Salvation  Army's  stirring 
chords,  anthems  of  Mother  Church. 

Samson  listened,  as  one  in  a  dream,  or  un 
der  the  spell  of  some  powerful  narcotic,  for 
he  had  never  before  known  so  rare  a  revel. 

The  night  was  indeed  his,  by  the  gift 
of  a  voice,  whose  subtle  sorcery  sent  the 
savage  within  him  away,  subdued  and 
ashamed,  into  the  shrouded  night. 

Never  for  one  little  moment,  did  the  solo 
ist  relax  her  watch;  on,  through  the  long 
hours  assigned  for  rest,  the  fierce  vigil  con 
tinued  unbroken,  with  only  Samson  and  the 
wondering  night  birds  of  the  desert,  for 
audience.  More  potent  than  speech  was 
the  witchery  wrought.  What  wronder? 

Was  she  not  singing  for  what  is  vastly 
more  precious,  than  the  hoarded  treasure 
of  the  Incas  and  Ind,  without  which  life, 
liberty,  wealth,  fame,  in  all  the  lofty 
places  of  this  world,  are  but  haggard,  hol 
low,  unholy  things? 


96  A    HEROINE    OF    DIPLOMACY 

Not  until  the  ruby  beams  of  a  day  new 
born,  began  to  deck  the  tawny  South 
lands  with  daintiest  draperies,  did  this 
gentle  necromancer,  yield  her  well-earned 
interlude;  and  then,  she  saw  a  Samson 
shorn  of  his  base  strength,  a  soul  whitened 

by  the  presence  of  purity. 

****** 

"Any  hold-ups?"  asked  a  brakeman  at 
El  Paso,  when  the  all  but  empty  caravan 
of  the  desert,  arrived  on  time. 

"Nary" — answered  the  engineer — "but" 
— he  added — "they'd  have  had  poor  pick 
ings,  with  only  a  woman  and  parrot 
aboard." 

Only  these!  How  pitifully  small  did 
they  count!  she,  of  whom  the  men  spoke, 
gave  no  hint  of  her  perilous  encounter,  but, 
womanlike,  bore  the  crushing  dread  of 
it,  with  dumb  agony  and  then,  as  many 
another  has  done,  passed  on. 


A   SLEUTH    OF    STOW  A  WATS 


A  SLEUTH  OF  STOWAWAYS. 

Down  by  San  Francisco's  sea-wall,  among 
the  masts,  figure-heads,  piers,  piles,  sails, 
nets,  stringers,  coal  and  coils  of  cord 
age,  there  lives  a  noticeable  and  weather- 
wrinkled  man,  who  has,  through  many 
consecutive  seasons,  propelled  a  battered 
boat. 

Captain  John  Willis,  is  the  name  and 
title  of  this  unique  personality,  who  more 
frequently  answers  to  "Jack,"  "Sea-dog," 
"Wharf-rat"  and  the  "Boatman."  Com 
radeship,  by  him,  is  claimed  with  Commo 
dore  Vanderbilt,  which  extends  back  to  the 
early  mid-century,  when  the  founder  of  that 
famous  house,  plied  his  craft  to  Staten  Isl 
and  and  recked  not  of  the  rank  reserved 
for  his  descendents. 

Among  the  duties  performed  by  this  erst 
while  associate  of  a  Croesus,  are  numbered 
the  custody  of  stowaways. 


100         A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS 

"I've  ben'  in  this  business  quite  a  spell, 
nigh  onto  forty  year" — he  said,  when  I 
sought  him  in  his  accustomed  haunts — "and 
I  can  ginerelly  spot  a  stow." 

When  asked  to  give  the  benefit  of  his 
experience,  he  did  so  with  characteristic 
clearness. 

"Different  ones"— he  explained— "has 
different  methods.  Some  hang  round  the 
docks  days  'afore  a  ship  sails:  there's  allus1 
somethin'  hungry  and  homesick  and  tired 
and  lonesome  lookin'  about  urn'.  If  asked 
any  questions,  they  say  they're  jest  agoin* 
to  ship,  either  to  the  Islands,  or  Alaska,  or 
Panama  or  Mexico.  Others,  agin',  speak 
fur  a  job,  callin'  theirselves  deck-hands,  or 
waiters,  or  extras;  some  is  not  seen  'till  the 
last  rope  is  histed;  then  they  come  hustlin' 
on,  as  if  they  had'nt  had  no  time  to  git  a 
ticket.  Why!  I've  even  pulled  'um  out  to 
meet  the  boat,  arter  she's  clean  off  into  the 
stream;  if  the  skipper  happens  to  be  good 
natured,  he'll  slack  up  and  git  'um  aboard. 
Arter  all  that  bother,  I've  brung  'um  back." 

"Who  are  these  people?"  I  inquired— 
"and  why  is  this  method  of  transportation 
adopted  ?" 


A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS          101 

"Who  are  they?"  the  Sleuth  of  Stow 
aways  repeated — 

"Some  is  gentlemen,  least-wise  in  looks 
and  talk;  some  is  toughs;  some  is  bums; 
I've  handled  all  kinds — women,  girls, 
boys,  babies  —  without  a  copper ;  all  a 
wantin'  to  git  away." 

"Why  choose  this  means?" 

"Ax  me  a  easier  one.  Why  does  a  sailor, 
when  he's  overboard,  grip  a  shingle,  or 
any  floatin'  thing  he  ken  set  his  fingers  on? 
when  folks  hav'nt  got  no  money,  nor  work, 
nor  nothin'  to  eat,  choice  'aint  in  it.  Stows 
is  always  broke." 

"Do  they  expect  to  improve  their  condi 
tion?" 

"It's  mostly  change,  they're  arter — and 
the  hope  of  gettin'  a  morsel  o'  money. 
Why!  when  the  Klondike  boom  was  on,  I 
brung  in  boat-loads  of  'um,  slim  girls  and 
boys  too,  headed  for  the  gold  fields,  with 
nothin'  mor'n  the  thin  clothes  they  stood 
in." 

"What  in  the  world  could  they  do  in  the 
gold  fields?" 

"Probably  as  much  as  they  air  a  doin* 


102          A    SLEUTH    OP    STOWAWAYS 

here  and  there's  always  the  hope  uv  that 
morsel  o'  money." 

"How  do  they  manage  to  get  aboard?" 

"O!  that's  easy  enough!  nobody  knows 
who's  who,  the  day  a  boat's  gettin'  out  o' 
port.  If  she's  crowded,  so  much  the  better 
fur  the  stow ;  he  can  hide  in  the  hold  with 
out  bein'  spied.  Sometimes  they  has  friends 
mong'st  the  sailors,  or  waiters,  or  passen 
gers  that  helps  'um  to  hide;  then  they  air 
in  luck.  Fact  is,  any  excuse  does  at  the 
dock,  but  it's  mighty  hard  fur  'um  to  git 
past  the  Heads." 

"Yes" — I  repeated — "It  is  hard  to  pass 
the  Heads" — for  Jack's  quaint  remarks  re 
called  impressively  an  incident  of  a  voyage, 
unforgettable. 

I  had  need  to  rise  early,  as  the  "Queen 
of  the  Pacific"  must  be  reached  by  8 
o'clock. 

I  found  the  wharf  thronged  with  the 
usual  implements  of  traffic,  which  included 
boxes,  bales,  furniture,  lumber,  swine,  sheep, 
goats,  cows,  mules — while  above  all, 
hummed  human  voices,  unremittingly. 

The  decks  swarmed  with  passengers, — 
booked,  ticketed,  cabined — many  of  them 


A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS          103 

attended  by  their  friends,  who  lingered  so 
licitously  until  the  sound  of  the  last  gong 
and  final  warning — "All  visitors  ashore" — 
precipitated  a  general  scamper. 

The  gangway  was  then  withdrawn.  The 
last  rope  loosed.  The  screw  turned. 
Showers  of  'kerchiefs,  kisses,  flowers  and 
good  words  were  wafted  from  the  piers. 
Music,  flying  flags,  salutes  and  stirring 
whistles  softened  the  pangs  of  parting 
and — we  were  at  last— off. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  glorious  morning.  The 
bay,  a  molten  blaze  of  many  blended  hues, 
bore  upon  its  serene  surface,  the  flags  of 
all  nations,  above  which  brooded  the  white 
doves  of  peace.  Crafts  of  every  conceivable 
description  swung  in  the  flame-lit  fathoms, 
that  laved  the  feet  of  the  stately  hills,  then 
stepping  out,  one  by  one,  from  their  gosso- 
mer  night  robes,  to  receive  the  first  kiss  of 
dawn. 

Grim  Alcatraz,  girdled  with  bristling 
armaments,  scintillating  in  the  sun,  sug 
gested  the  presence  of  some  monster 
leviathian,  emerging  from  the  deep,  still  un- 
divested  of  gems,  from  his  submarine  home. 

The  City's  superb  eminences,  with  her 


104          A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS 

countless  spires,  domes  and  minarets  against 
the  crimson  sky,  seemed  a  temple  suited  to 
the  abode  of  Celestials. 

"What  a  magnificent  morning!  What 
splendid  pictures!  This  beats  Boston! 
Naples  is  nowhere !  Sydney  is  out  of  sight ! 
Telegraph  Hill  looks  a  coroneted  castle! 
Angel  Island  is  appropriately  named!  I 
wouldn't  mind  being  a  soldier,  if  I  could  live 
at  the  Presidio!  Russian  Hill  tops  Bun 
ker!"  were  among  the  ecstatic  exclamations. 
We  were  within  the  purple  pillared  "gate," 
and  so  lightly  did  our  big  steamer  skim  the 
torpid  tides  that  not  a  ripple  whitened  the 
blue. 

A  languid  little  breeze  strode  in  from  the 
sea,  scarcely  stiffening  the  stars  and  stripes, 
that  soared  protectingly  at  our  peak.  In 
the  offing,  a  sail,  no  larger  than  a  heron's 
wing  flitted,  then  melted  away  into  the 
mystic  world  of  waters,  a  reminder  that  we 
too  would  soon  be,  but  a  speck  in  the  dis 
tance,  a  break  in  the  horizon's  hem,  and 
then — blankness. 

These  and  similar  meditations  were  in 
terrupted  by  a  sudden  stop.  "What  has 
happened?  Why?  What?  Where? 


A    SLEUTH    OP    STOWAWAYS          105 

Who?" — flew  from  lip  to  lip,  but  no  an 
swer  came  from  the  ozoned  depths,  nor 
yet  from  the  startled  crew. 

Those,  however,  who  preserved  a  becom 
ing  composure  and  were  bent  to  observa 
tion,  might  have  followed  the  swift  unfurl- 
ment  by  a  deck  hand,  of  a  small  flag ;  noted 
a  signal  from  the  pilot's  bridge;  a  naked 
eye  could  have  discerned  the  approach  of  a 
boat  in  the  hands  of  a  practiced  sculler, 
who  was  soon  alongside  the  Alaskan  liner. 

Meanwhile,  a  rope  ladder  had  been  low 
ered,  whither  an  officer  and  his  aids  escorted 
a  shrinking  youth,  who  was  gruffly  bidden 
to  descend.  Listlessly  he  grasped  the  sway 
ing  stair;  when  his  feet  struck  the  lower 
rung,  Captain  Willis'  reaching  arms  re 
ceived  him  and  limp,  faint,  mute,  dazed, 
he  sank  a  baffled  stowaway  into  certain 
custody. 

"Any  baggage?"  inquired  the  Captain — 
his  gaze  directed  deckward. 

"No." 

"Any  more  of  'um  up  there?" 

"Wait," — was  the  laconic  order  given. 

These  unexpected  developments  supplied 


106          A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS 

a  sensation,  more  or  less  diverting,  to  minds 
receptive. 

Early  occupants  of  the  cabins,  steeped  in 
slumber,  or  wrapped  in  reveries  befitting 
the  sublimity  of  an  approaching  deep  sea 
voyage,  accepted  the  jarring  interruption 
and  forsook  their  cushioned  ease,  to  court 
a  comfortless  curiosity. 

Those  of  more  privileged  sequestration, 
who  lingered  aft,  to  drink  the  glories  of 
the  morning,  rudely  snapped  the  witcheries 
wrought  by  slopes  of  green  that  go  down 
to  greet  the  blue;  the  loops  of  sun  and 
spray  that  make  radiant  rainbows  among 
the  granite  bowlders ;  the  reaching  estuaries, 
the  foam-flowered  shore,  the  symphonous 
surf,  the  soft,  velvet-shouldered  hills,  the 
salute  of  the  seals,  the  splendid  stretch  of 
sea — all  were  abandoned  for  the  sake  of 
a  girl-faced,  simple,  shamed  youth,  whom 
confusion  covered,  as  an  ill-fitting  mantle. 

The  attention  he  had  won,  was  certainly 
concentrated,  all  else  for  the  time  being 
unheeded. 

The  stowaway  could  have  claimed  com 
parison  with  a  star  actor,  who  shadows 
his  support  and  extorts  the  interest  of  his 


A    SLEUTH    OP    STOW  AW  AYE          107 

audience.  While  the  stow  differed  from  the 
star,  in  that  embarrassment  was  visibly 
apparent,  he  had  nevertheless,  unwittingly, 
accomplished  what  myriads  seek  for,  fruit 
lessly,  through  years  of  patient  toil;  and 
his  audience  was  not  merely  interested;  it 
was  indulgent;  it  was  sympathetic ;  he  had 
awakened  what  was  best  in  it,  therefore  the 
unenviable  role  was  of  value  to  the  world. 

One,  in  that  upper  assembly,  moved  by 
the  blessed  quality,  which  makes  us  all 
akin,  flung,  as  by  irresistible  impulse,  a 
nickel,  from  his  perch  on  the  hurricane  deck, 
down  on  the  floor  of  Jack's  wabbly  craft. 

"That's  for  him," — shouted  the  sender, 
making  a  conch  of  one  hand,  addressing  the 
red-shirted  Captain,  pointing,  at  the  same 
time,  toward  his  sullen  captive;  this  proved 
the  cue  for  more  nickels,  dimes  and  larger 
silver  pieces. 

One  especially  favored  cabin  passenger, 
who  lolled  fetchingly  in  a  fur-draped  steam 
er  chair,  not  so  young  as  she  used 
to  be,  but  still  impressionable,  rose  su 
perior  to  her  flirtations  by  dropping  a  dol 
lar  into  the  novel  collection  box;  she  had 


108         A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS 

a  son,  somewhere,  she  said,  with  the  same 
sort  of  kinkey,  coppery  hair  and — freckles. 

O !  Mother  Nature !  thou  art  indeed  om 
nipotent  ! 

The  captive,  down  there,  in  his  open 
prison,  became,  by  these  ameliorating  ad 
vances,  as  one  transfigured;  for  he  rose  im 
pulsively,  from  the  cross  plank  that  sup 
ported  him,  removed  his  hat  and  lifted  his 
eyes;  tears  suffused  them,  and  such  scrappy 
speech  as  reached  us  may  be  thus  tran 
scribed. 

"I — thank — you — friends — dear — dear — 
friends — one — and — all.  I — shall — never — 
never — forget — you." 

And  so,  with  blessings,  wrenched  from 
the  depths  of  one  despairing  soul,  did  our 
voyage  begin. 

"It's  a  good  omen" — remarked  a  furrow- 
featured  man,  learned  in  the  lore  of  winds 
and  tides — "luck  always  follows  alms,  be 
stowed  the  day  a  ship  sails."  His  words 
proved  prophetic,  as  a  more  charming  tour 
among  mist  islands,  set  in  luminous  seas, 
never  weathered  the  wave. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  boy?"  I 
asked  Captain  Willis,  jogging  his  memory, 


A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS          109 

after  my  return  from  the  great,  white, 
silent,  nightless  North. 

"I  dumped  him  off  at  Meiggs's,"  was 
his  answer. 

"It's  convenienter  fur  me  and  a  heap 
suitabler  fur  the  stows;  they  like  a  place 
whar  they  can  hide  and  not  have  to  be 
looked  at  by  other  folks;  there's  lots  o' 
lumber  at  Meiggs,  which  is  useful  to  'um, 
'cause  it  keeps  'um  out  'o  sight,  while  they're 
a  restin'  and  calculatin'  on  what  they're  a 
goin'  to  do." 

"After  Meiggs — what  then?" 

"I  cayn't  undertake  to  keep  track  of  all 
the  stows;  t'would  interfere  with  my  other 
business,  ye  know;  but  seys  that  un  to  me, 
seys  he." 

"Jack— I  was  broke.  I'd  ben'  a 
tryin'  to  git  a  job  and  arter  knockin' 
'round  and  'round,  and  gettin' 
kicks  and  cuffs  and  havin'  doors  slammed 
in  yer  face  fur  days  and  bein'  told  to  move 
on — Wy!  say!  a  kid  gits  mighty  sore  and 
thirsty  and  hungry;  and  I  seys  to  myself 
seys  I,  nothin'  can  happen,  out  in  the  ocean, 
worse  than  is  bound  to  happen  har'  and  I'm 
goin'  to  take  the  chances  and  I  did." 


110          A    fCIiEUTH    Or    STOWAWAYS 

"What  became  of  him  ?"  I  insisted. 

"Wai!  when  I  sot  him  on  the  dock,  he 
had  somethin'  like  three  dollars  gin'  him 
from  the  decks;  I  chipped  in,  so's  to  make 
it  a  even  five,  then  I  tuk'  him  to  a  eatin' 
house,  whar  he  had  a  good  breakfast. 
Then  I  seys  to  him,  seys  I,  ride  out  on 
the  San  Mateo  road,  'es  fur  es  the  cars 
'11  take  ye;  then  walk  to  a  milk  ranch  and 
ask  the  foreman  to  give  'ye  a  job;  and  he 
done  so." 

"Well— what  then?" 

"In  about  a  fort-night  er  so" — continued 
this  oracle — "he  come  to  see  me  an' 
I  seys  to  him,  seys  I — "How  goes  it?"  He 
seys — 

"I  got  the  job  all  right  and  might  'hev 
stuck  it  out  fur  awhile,  if  I  had'nt  ben  so 
turribly  hendered.  I  had  to  git  up  at  2 
o'clock  in  the  mornin'  to  do  my  milkin ;  but 
that  I  didn't  mind  so  much  as  the  lone- 
someness,  when  everybody  else  wus  sound 
asleep  and  the  awful  dark;  t'wus 
the  Swiss  milkers,  tho',  that  done  me  the 
dirt,  fur  they,  seein'  I  wus  a  new  hand  and 
American,  had  me  fired  and  then — they  run 
me  off." 


A    SLEUTH    OP    STOWAWAYS          111 

"And  then"— 

"I  didn't  see  him  no  more,  'till  I  hooked 
him  out  of  the  bay." 

"Dead?" 

"Yas  'um!  and  what's  more — part  of 
him  gone;  by  the  looks,  I  reckoned  he'd 
ben'  in  the  water — mebby  two  days;  the 
crabs  had  ben  at  him,  but  they  left  him 
his  reddish  hair  and  freckles;  that's  how  I 
knowed  t'was  him.  I  s'pose  he  got  tired 
huntin'  fur  a  job  and  gettin'  turned  down; 
then  he  done  what  lots  more  uv  'um  do — 
jumped  overboard!  The  coroner  paid  ten 
dollars  fur  what  was  left  of  his  body  and 
it  wus  took  to  Potter's,  I  'spose,  'cause  no 
body  claimed  him.  Ye  see,  missus,  the  boy 
dead,  wus  worth  good  dust  to  the  city; 
alive,  he  wusn't  worth  a  red." 

What  ghastly  revelation  was  this!  The 
dead  of  more  value  than  the  living!  By 
such  grewsome  reckoning  how  poor  indeed, 
is  life! 

"Do  you  bring  in  many?"  I  asked. 

"Stows  is  my  line,  lady,  above  water, 
ruther  than  under  it,  tho'  I  do  handle  um 
both  ways.  About  every  day  I  bring  in 
somebody  that  wants  to  git  away;  and  why 


112          A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS 

do  they  want  to  git  away?  What's  the 
matter  with  San  Francisco?" 

"Yes!  What  is  the  matter  with  San 
Francicso" — I  repeated — "that  the  dead  is 
worth  more  to  it  than  the  living?" 

"Wai!  ye  ken  bile  it  down  to  this, missus; 
money's  got  the  sinch  here,  'es  every  whar 
else.  San  Francisco  is  no  place  fur  them 
'es  has  stomachs  an'  nothin'  to  put  into 
'um.  Poor  folks  had  better  git  away  and 
stay  away." 

"But,  Captain!  where  are  they  to  go? 
Where  would  they  be  welcome?  Is  there 
a  harbor  in  the  world,  where  people  may 
land  without  money?" 

The  Captain's  face  lengthened  percept 
ibly,  as  he  said — 

"None  that  ever  /  shipped  to.  None  that 
ever  /  hearn'  tell  of,  'cept  from  the  parsons 
and  they  don't  locate  the  port.  Sartin  it  is, 
that  the  stows  show  to  ship  is  slim.  I'm  here 
to  head  'urn  off  and  in  all  ports  whar  these 
ships  go,  there's  law  agin'  pauper  landin'. 
In  Honolulu,  every  new  one  has  to  havf 
fifty  dollars,  or  else  be  took  back — whar  he 
come  from.  In  Seattle  and  Tacoma  tramps 
has  to  go  to  jail;  many  a  one  is  brung 


A    S1.EUTH    OP    STOWAWAYS          113 

back  that  hasn't  the  stuff  to  shore  on ;  many 
a  one  I've  saved  the  bother  of  havin'  to  be 
brung  back." 

"Does  it  pay?" 

"Who?" 

"You— Captain!" 

"Wai!  I've  got  no  kick  agin'  my  job. 
What  a  man's  ben  doin'  fur  so  many  year 
gits  to  be  sort  o'second  natir',  but  I  want 
to  tell  you,  right  now,  there's  no  money  in 
stows  above  water;  if  they  wus  dead,  I 
might  stand  a  show  of  gettin'  rich,  cartin' 
'urn  to  the  morgue  at  ten  dollars  a  head." 

"And  becoming  one  of  the  four  hundred 
and  being  bidden  to  a  ball  of  Mrs.  Vander- 
bilt?" — was  my  bold  hazard  of  possibili 
ties. 

"Yas — Cornelius  did  use  to  say  in  the  old 
days  when  we  bunked  together — "money 
is  what  countenances  money."  As  it  is, 
wal!  I  ain't  countin'  on  any  thing,  more'n 
what  the  boat  brings  me  in  regular" — 

The  sage  boatman  was  here  interrupted 
by  a  mysterious  signal,  unintelligible  to  me, 
for  he  suddenly  seized  his  oars,  swung  his 
skiff,  doffed  his  lopsided  sou'wester  and  with 
a  deferential — 


114         A    SLEUTH    OF    STOWAWAYS 

"  'Scus  me  please,  I  must  be  off!"  — 
troughed  the  tides,  at  the  wharf's  outer 
edge  and  was  soon  lost  in  the  lowering 
fog. 

By  which  abrupt  taking  off,  the  fogs  of 
bewilderment  beclouded  me ;  but  from  them, 
swifter  than  the  boatman's  swinging 
scull,  flew  sympathy  for  the  brother  stow, 
apprehended,  out  there  among  the  mouvey 
mists,  awaiting,  perchance  in  trembling 
terror  the  Sleuth's  discovery. 

Dire  depression  grew  with  the  thought, 
that  a  being  possessed  of  all  the  wealth  of 
pulsing  life,  is,  if  moneyless  and  jobless, 
counted  less  in  a  city's  strange  economics, 
than  a  dismembered  corpse,  flung  up  from 
the  noisome  depths  of  the  bay,  doomed  to 
the  Coroner's  cart,  the  slimy  slab,  the  cold 
scrutiny  of  the  callous  and  final  consign 
ment  to  an  unidentified  pit  in  Potter's. 


TEE  STORY  OF  A  CURSE 


THE  STORY  OF  A  CURSE. 


"I  insist  that  the  house  now  occupied 
by  me  be  torn  down,  no  one  having  occu 
pied  it  but  my  own  family." 

"Ever  since  the  will  of  Mrs.  Amelia  Van 
Reynegom  Pixley,  of  which  the  foregoing  is 
a  faithful  excerpt,  was  made  public,  there 
have,  behind  fans  and  above  thin-lipped, 
daintily  decorated  tea  cups,  been  ominous 
head-shakes,  whispers,  brow-lifts,  vague  con 
jectures,  hints,  significent  sniffs,  sugges 
tions,  sly  elbowings  and  even  smothered 
scraps  of  scandal,  touching  what  the  gar 
rulous  call  "wanton  desecration,"  and  the 
more  conservative  concede  to  be  strange. 
An  atmosphere  of  mystery,  which  is  another 
name  for  morbid  fascination,  hung  about 
the  picturesque  premises,  which  were  num 
bered,  long  before  their  destruction,  among 
the  haunted  houses  of  San  Francisco. 

"Why   should   a   fine,   strong   house   of 


118  THE    STORY   OF  A   CURSE 

twenty-nine  rooms  go  to  the  dust  heap, 
when  we  haven't  shelter  for  our  bones?" 
quaver  the  aged,  the  indigent,  the  out-rid 
den  and  down-trodden  in  life's  race. 

Why,  indeed!  Let  the  masters  of  rig 
orous  fate  answer. 

"It  is  outright  arson,  therefore  unlaw 
ful,  this  destruction  of  property;"  croak 
certain  legal  luminaries,  who  quote,  the 
while,  volubly  from  the  code. 

"What  a  fine  summer  resort  it  would 
make!"  exclaim  the  fraternal  dispensers 
of  a  brew  that  brings  ephemeral  nepen 
the, — "with  all  this  shrubbery  and  shade; 
a  few  van  loads  of  tables,  chairs,  steins, 
goblets,  a  brass  band  on  holidays  and 
Pixley's  would  be  a  blooming  oasis  for 
the  thirsty  multitudes." 

But — the  property  is  placed  on  sale,  in 
lots  for  building  purposes  exclusively  and 
so  the  distributors  of  soft  goods  are  barred. 

The  church  of  which  Mrs.  Pixley  was 
a  life-long  and  devout  member,  nurses  a 
grievance  which  is  likely  to  remain  un- 
redressed,  for  it  is  alleged  that  the  lady 
intended  the  ultimate  appropriation  of  her 
home  for  a  boarding  .  school,  under  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A  CURSE  119 

tutelage  of  trustees  appointed  by  a  Bishop; 
but,  it  is  quite  clear,  that  this  dream  of 
religious  and  educational  endowment  came 
not  to  tangible  consummation. 

Thrifty  bonifaces  of  the  publican  trend 
of  policy,  cast  long  and  covetous  eyes  upon 
those  hospitably  structured  precincts,  so  rich 
in  reminiscences,  so  adaptable  to  present 
conditions;  and  yet,  despite  these  and  all 
advances,  Pixley's  remained  untenanted 
after  the  removal  of  the  original  owners; 
and  these,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the  scenes  of 
their  sublunary  activities,  still  lingered,  if 
reports  were  to  be  credited,  about  the 
grounds. 

According  to  reputed  testimony,  the 
wraith  of  Mrs.  Pixley  frequently  appeared 
in  the  wooded  shades  she  loved  so  well. 
Attaches  of  her  household,  trusted  servants, 
who  remained  in  the  rambling  old  mansion 
after  the  hammer  of  leather-lunged  auction 
eers  had  fallen  upon  the  bronzes,  lanterns, 
vases,  jardinieres,  Persian  rugs,  Gobelin 
tapestries,  Bagdad  portieres,  pictures, 
swords,  statuary,  armor,  ebonies,  candelabra, 
screens,  camphor-woods,  silver  sets  and  all 
that  combined  to  make  a  rare  collection  of 


120  THE  STOBY  OP  A  CURSE 

household  gods,  tell  of  tappings  and  rap- 
pings,  steps  stealthy,  sudden  and  untrace- 
able;  whispers,  varied  by  voices  heavy  and 
hoarse;  laughter  that  was  mirthless  and 
sobs  that  could  not  be  stilled,  in  the  aband 
oned  ball  and  banquet  hall,  wrhere  Mr.  Pix- 
ley  in  his  years  of  mental  luster  and  mone 
tary  opulence,  held  generous  and  most 
memorable  wassail. 

To  the  skeptical,  this  may  seern 
but  the  sheerest  vagary  of  some  hair- 
brained  scamp,  who  seeks  the  coin 
age  of  filthiest  lucre,  hatched  from  a 
shredded  theme;  but  the  more  reflective 
may,  from  the  mention  of  these  ghostly  visi 
tations,  glean  meat  for  fruitful  meditation. 
With  Prince  Hamlet,  are  we  not  all 
moved  to  the  humble  acknowledgment,  that 
"there  are  more  things  in  earth  and  heaven 
than  are  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy?" 
Should  one  who  has  passed  to  a  more  re 
moved  place,  known  to  us  in  days  of  yore 
as  Frank  M.  Pixley,  now  protest  at  the 
effacement  of  his  personality,  in  the  home 
he  best  loved  and  builded  so  exceptionally, 
what  doubting  Thomas  of  the  flesh  \vould, 
if  he  could,  withhold  from  that  restless 


THE   STORY  OF  A  CURSE  121 

entity,  the  poor  privilege  of  making  such 
sentient  expression  as  is  now  at  his  com 
mand? 

Above  all  else  did  Mr.  Pixley  seek  egress 
from  oblivion.  To  the  end  that  the  black 
night  of  nihility  might  be,  for  a  little  time 
postponed,  he  built  chapels,  endowed  kind 
ergartens,  named  public  thoroughfares, 
planted  trees,  set  himself  in  imperishable 
print  and  engraved  his  name  upon  the 
hem  of  histrionic  art. 

An  actress  contibuted  her  mite  to  his  im 
mortality.  A  town  in  the  County  of  Tulare 
was  christened  in  his  honor.  A  male  child, 
not  of  his  blood,  bears  his  name,  and  is 
the  principal  heir  to  his  estate.  That  the 
bald,  bare,  waterless  dunes,  where  he  first 
broke  soil  on  the  Pacific  peninsula  and 
made  to  blossom  as  the  fairest  rose,  now 
nearly  a  half  century  ago,  may  not  con 
tribute  to  the  perpetuity  of  his  name,  was 
by  no  means,  originally  willed  by  the 
Argonaut's  founder. 

Set  like  a  precious  jewel  in  a 
wilderness  of  walls,  that  garden,  with 
its  rare  greenery  and  riotous  bloom, 
brought  in  tender  seedlings,  from  the 


122  THE  STORY  OP  A  CURSE 

tropics,  the  white  nurseries  of  the  Alps 
and  the  far,  frozen  shores  of  stiffened  seas, 
was,  to  Mr.  Pixley  a  refuge,  an  oasis,  an 
eden,  the  beguiling  child  of  his  harried 
age. 

"Preserve  it,"  were  his  instructions  to 
Mrs.  Pixley,  who  survived  him;  "make 
it  a  public  park,  children's  playground,  a 
sailors'  rest,  camp-meeting  grove,  a  free 
wash  yard  for  the  poor ;  anything  you  will, 
which  may  best  serve  the  greater  number; 
but,  in  the  name  of  God  and  the  vow  you 
made  me  at  the  altar,  destroy  the  house; 
let  nothing  of  it  remain.  Promise!  Your 
hand  on  the  Book,  solemnly." 

And  the  wife,  without  question,  prom 
ised. 

How  well  that  promise  has  been  kept, 
all  San  Francisco  knows.  The  spectacle 
of  a  large  force  of  men  engaged  in  the  de 
struction  of  property,  is  so  unusual  as  to 
make  it  memorable.  Days  merged  into 
weeks  before  the  highly  polished,  curly 
veined,  fragrant  woods,  from  California's 
giant  sequoia  forests,  which  formed  the 
floors  and  ceilings  in  that  unique  dwelling, 


THE   STORY  OF  A  CURSE  123 

were  reduced  to  fragments,  and  carted 
away. 

The  crenelated  mouldings,  fantastic 
friezes,  wainscotings,  scrolls,  mosaics, 
pedestals,  pillars,  mantels,  baths,  blinds, 
tiles,  lattices,  lintels,  that,  in  charred  sec 
tions,  went  to  swell  unsightly  rubbish  heaps 
in  the  City  of  the  Doleful  Dumps,  bore 
mute  and  most  pathetic  testimony,  to  the 
strength  of  Mrs.  Pixley's  pledge. 

Lest  the  singularity  of  the  clause  in  her 
last  testament,  which  directed  the  de 
struction  of  the  dwelling  after  her  death, 
should  subject  it  to  contest  and  possible 
revision,  the  lady  made  gift  deeds  of  prop 
erty  fronting  Green  and  Steiner  Streets, 
in  such  manner  as  to  make  the  house  detri 
mental  to  the  remaining  space,  this  being 
in  accordance  with  Mr.  Pixley's  explicit 
stipulation,  that,  should  the  grounds  in 
their  sylvan  state,  hinder  the  entire  efface- 
ment  of  the  house,  they  too,  must  be  di 
vided  into  lots  and  sold.  Having  a  brick 
foundation  the  dwelling  could  not  be  re 
moved  and  standing,  as  it  did,  in  the  way 
of  commercial  advantage,  it  could  not  be 
let  remain  and  so  its  doom  was  inevitable. 


124  THE   STORY   OF  A  CURSE 

"But  why  this  defacement  of  beauty? 
— This  spoil  of  precious  utility?"  is  the 
oft  put  query.  Was  it  the  mere  conjuring 
of  a  brain  distraught,  that  raved  about 
"a  house  with  a  thousand  eyes,"  declaring 
that  "it  was  haunted,  hounded  and  must 
be  torn  down?" 

"If  Mr.  Pixley  had  been  a  poor  man  he 
would  have  passed  the  last  days  of  his 
life  in  a  madhouse;"  is  the  statement  of 
his  surviving  physicians  and  attendants. 
Who,  save  the  most  psychic  of  scientists, 
may  presume  to  decide  where  sanity  ends 
and  insanity  begins?  That  Mrs.  Pixley, 
a  woman  of  exceptionally  sound  judgment, 
respected  her  husband's  wishes  is  proof  posi 
tive  of  a  design,  at  bottom,  more  tangible 
than  sentiment,  more  enduring  than  the 
whims  of  a  mind  diseased. 

Who  ever  accused  Frank  Pixley  of  being 
a  sentimental  man?  Since  the  early  fifties, 
when,  as  a  youthful  adventurer,  he  led 
his  gray  mule  over  untrodden  fastnesses, 
in  search  of  a  place  to  camp  and  secure 
unto  himself  freedom  of  speech,  a  human 
habitation  and  a  name,  Mr.  Pixley's  plans 
were  original,  fearless,  irrepressible  and  the 


THE   STORY  OF  A  CUBSE  125 

final  disposition  of  his  effects  is  in  keeping 
with  the  eccentricities  of  his  character. 

Dreams  he  had,  though  then  but  in  em 
bryo,  of  one  day  becoming  a  power  in  the 
new  land  of  his  adoption,  by  the  exercise 
of  his  pen.  To  the  end  that  facility  of  ex 
pression  might  be  acquired,  it  was  his  habit, 
each  day  to  record,  not  merely  the  actual 
events  of  that  day,  but  the  thoughts,  aspira 
tions,  desires  and  projects  conceived  be 
tween  the  hours  of  waking  and  sleeping. 
Did  he  perform  manual  labor?  Each 
stroke  was  noted.  Did  he  enter  into  a  busi 
ness  transaction?  Each  detail  was  audited 
in  such  exactitude  as  never  inked  a  public 
ledger.  Did  he  form  an  acquaintance? 
The  name  and  scope  of  it  went  into  the 
personal  records.  Did  he  take  a  journey? 
Every  moment  and  mile  was  incorporated 
in  the  journal. 

As  his  life  widened  in  activity  and 
acquisition,  these  journals  became  a 
subject  of  care,  somewhat  more  seri 
ous  than  their  author  had  in  the  begin 
ning,  anticipated.  What  a  drawered  desk 
sufficed  for,  at  a  circumscribed  stage  in  his 
career  gradually  grew  to  proportions,  call- 


126  THE   STORY  OF  A  CURSE 

ing  for  much  greater  space,  a  certain  sys 
tem  and  more  security  of  keeping — as  they 
were  not  in  their  original  text,  intended 
for  indiscriminate  perusal. 

With  the  evolution  of  his  residence, 
from  two  rooms  to  twenty  nine,  safes, 
vaults,  closets,  cabinets  and  shelving 
were  constructed,  so  located  and  screened 
by  sliding  panels,  interior  decorations, 
etc.,  as  to  evade  detection;  thus  the 
house  came  to  be  literally  honey 
combed  with  receptacles  for  private  papers. 
Instead  of  curtailing  those  records  with  the 
varied  activity  of  business,  their  author 
elaborated,  the  habit  having  fastened  itself, 
his  plan  being,  eventually,  to  revise,  segre 
gate  and  publish  them  in  book  form,  after 
his  retirement  from  the  journalistic  arena — 
a  task  which  would,  doubtless,  have  been 
accomplished,  had  he  remained  to  the  end, 
in  the  full  possession  of  his  faculties.  Long 
before  he  was  mentally  stricken,  however, 
his  pen  hand  became  palsied  and  he 
could  not  successfully  dictate. 

Not  only  were  those  "confessions"  niched 
in  welded  walls,  rich  in  personal  reminis 
cences,  but  they  may  be  said  to  have  con- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  CURSE  127 

tained  much  of  the  private,  unpublished 
history  of  San  Francisco,  as  the  names  of 
his  associates  figured  in  them. 

Surviving  ones  among  that  sturdy,  and 
alas!  fast  diminishing  company,  make  the 
bold  assertion  that  those  "confessions"  if 
published  would  have  incriminated,  not  only 
their  clever  custodian,  but  others  upon 
whom  the  penalty  of  celebrity  hangs. 

Whether  or  not  this  be  true,  it  is  safe 
to  presume  that  they  could  have  furnished 
themes  for  absorbing  tragedy,  comedy,  bal 
lads,  sonnets,  lyrics  and  even  blank  verse, 
as  the  scenes  which  they  must  have  por 
trayed  were  among  the  most  picturesque 
and  dramatic,  in  annals  renowned  for  the 
scenic  and  startling  in  human  affairs. 

In  those  moving  incidents  Mr.  Pix- 
ley  was  ever  a  conspicuous  personality,  as 
his  political  prominence,  fearless  expres 
sion,  pronounced  patriotism;  his  personal 
magnetism,  the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  rail 
lery  and  satire,  his  social  status,  wealth 
and  wide  acquaintance  secured  for  him  bit 
ter  enemies,  as  well  as  admirers  and  friends. 

His  house  at  one  time,  was  the  Mecca 
of  the  literati  touring  the  Pacific  Coast. 


128  THE   STOEY  OF  A  CURSE 

That  it  was,  likewise,  sought  by  persons  of 
sinister  purpose,  one  example  among  many 
of  vivid  memory  may  serve  to  illustrate. 
Under  cover  of  cloud  and  the  night,  now 
many  years  ago,  a  spare,  bent  woman  of 
wintry  face  and  thin  hair  that  made  ashen 
strands  in  the  chill  trade-winds  which 
drifted  in  from  the  sea,  cast  her  gaunt 
shadow  athwart  the  Pixley  threshold  and 
thus  did  she  deliver  herself: 

"Son  of  Isaac,  the  apostate  Jew,  long 
have  I  awaited  you  and  now  take  this.  By 
ill-gotten  gains  are  you  here  possessed,  but 
they  will  pass  to  the  property  of  strangers. 
No  child,  in  wedlock,  will  be  born  to  you, 
but,  should  seed  of  yours  bring  issue,  the 
mark  of  Cain  will  be  upon  it,  its  death 
untimely!  In  the  days  from  which  you 
cannot  escape,  the  friends  of  your  affluence 
will  know  you  no  more.  Demented  you 
will  die  and  your  bones  shall  bear  no  sepul 
chre!  Accursed  be  the  ground  beneath 
your  feet!  May  the  God  of  Israel,  whom 
you  have  foresworn,  deal  with  you  as  you 
have  dealt  with  me  and  mine!  By  our 
ancient  and  unalterable  faith,  I  demand  of 


THE    STORY    OF    A    CURSE  129 

you,  eye  for  eye,  tooth  for  tooth,  heart  for 

heart!" 

****** 

Over  in  the  foothills  of  Contra  Costa 
County  there  dwells  a  lonely  woman,  long 
ago  by  the  world  forgotten,  who  avows 
with  convincing  vehemence,  that  this  was 
not  the  only  curse  which  followed  the  pale 
form  of  Pixley,  out  where  the  crimson 
shroud  encircled  it,  in  the  white  corridored 
columbarium. 

More  vital  than  vengeance  are  the 
issues  immured  within  the  breast  of 
this  modern  Rachael,  sitting  in  sorrow  and 
desolution,  mourning  for  her  children  and 
refusing  to  be  comforted  because  they  are 
not.  Those  children,  the  younger  Pixley 
heirs  and  hers,  by  the  holy  rites  of  love, 
are  removed  from  her,  not  by  the  hand  of 
God  but  by  the  more  cruel  mandate  of 
man.  Who  is  this  Rachael,  robbed  of  her 
children?  Who  the  fierce  woman  that 
hurled  upon  the  Pixley  portals,  such  dire 
and  accurate  prophecy?  Who  the  apostate 
Jew? 

A  party  of  Bohemian  bards  and  space- 
writers  sought  permission  to  spend  a  night 


130  THE    STORY    OF    A    CURSE 

on  the  Pixley  premises,  after  they  were 
reputed  to  have  been  haunted,  but  these  in 
offensive  folk  were  rigidly  barred. 

Wherefore  ? 

After  the  house  lapsed  into  vacancy,  why 
were  artists,  writers  and  every  class  of 
journalists  refused  entrance  thereto?  The 
written  reams,  secreted  in  shelving  behind 
the  sliding  panels,  could  have  explained, 
but,  with  the  hand  that  penned  and  pre 
served  them,  they  have  passed  into  ashes. 


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